


The Stars Have Nothing on You

by idcishipit



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood, Developing Friendships, Domestic Violence, Drinking, Established Relationship, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 10:04:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15140741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idcishipit/pseuds/idcishipit
Summary: The entire airport was shut down because of the snow. There'd been some cries of outrage and frustration up at boarding desks, but Feyre couldn't feel anything but gratitude to the Mother for the blizzard.





	1. Earthquakes

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own A Court of Thorns and Roses or the characters. 
> 
> Constructive criticism wanted! Thanks for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own A Court of Thorns and Roses or the characters.
> 
> Constructive criticism wanted! Thanks for reading!

The entire airport was shut down because of the snow. There'd been some cries of outrage and frustration up at boarding desks, but Feyre couldn't feel anything but gratitude to the Mother for the blizzard. 

It wasn't that she didn't want to go home, it was that it didn't feel like home anymore. She pulls out her phone and rolls her carry on closer to her legs as a large group passes by. 

_The airports shut down. Probably won't get out of here til tomorrow :(_

She tucks away her phone and brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her gate wasn't crowded for an international flight, only some fliers asking about connecting flights at the desk, but she knew cancelled flights meant scouting for seats and floorspace. Already parents are making beds for their children out of sweaters and travel pillows. 

Her cell buzzes as she sits in one of the black chairs between a man reading a book and a woman with typing madly on her tablet.

_I told you to come home earlier. Text me when they tell you anything._

Her fingers hover over the keyboard. Once she'd have known what to say. 

A child runs passed followed by a smaller girl tottering after him. It only takes a moment but the little girl steps wrongly and starts to fall. 

Inches from the worn carpet, large hands catch her by the belly and sets her on her feet, hands hovering around her as she finds her balance and follows her brother like nothing happened. 

Feyre glances across the aisle at the toddler's savior and loses her breath. The man is the most handsome man she's ever seen, like he stepped out of a magazine or cologne commercial. Dark hair, dark pools of blue, and a white button up, she knows if she ever tried to paint him she would never do him justice. 

He sits back in his seat like he hasn't saved them all from a screaming child. He tips his head back so she can see the jawline she could cut herself on and closes his eyes. 

She catches the eye of the woman next to her who nods at her appreciatively. Feyre looks away as her cheeks start to burn at being caught staring at a stranger by another stranger. 

_I called the airport and they said the blizzard is supposed to last until noon tomorrow. I still don't understand why you couldn't have taken the jet on Monday._

She pulls out her sketchbook. She preferred painting to drawing, but painting on the tablet Tamlin bought her just wasn't the same as holding a brush and feeling the paint move onto the canvas. She only used the tablet when he or Lucien were around. 

So her pencil skips across the page instead as she plans her next painting. Comforting herself that the painting would look better than the thumbnail, she loses herself in it. 

Snow begins to whip against the large glass windows looking over the airplanes. The children make their way from toys to their places on their guardians' laps, nuzzling their heads under chins. As the airport settles down, Feyre climbs out of her trance. 

The woman and her tablet are long gone, and the man with the book head is bowed, arms crossed and snoring quietly. 

But the handsome man across from her has an ankle over his knee and biting his thumb as he focuses in on a book. 

Feyre shifts in her seat and looks at her sketch turned drawing. She snaps the cover of the book down, then slowly opens it again. 

Her sketch of the gate's lobby morphed into the man and his sharp figure slouched in the seat while still looking great though it was nowhere near as impressive as the man in front of her. 

She sneaks another peek at the man before turning her page and quickly sketching his form. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. 

Over the next hour the form turns into a person and then a shadow of the stranger in front of her. The hardest part to capture is the confidence he projects at eleven o'clock at night surrounded by snow and over-tired travelers. 

She's trying to get the slight wave of his hair just right for the fourth time when she looks up to wonder how she's supposed to get it right, and she nearly dies on the spot. 

He's staring at her, fist pressed under his chin, leaning toward her. 

The meter between them is far too little. Heat shoots across her face and up her neck. Closing her sketchbook, she pulls out her phone and swipes through it and peeks beneath her lashes at him. 

He's still staring, but cocks a perfect eyebrow at her and she feels like she's on fire. Feyre clears her throat and stares back, crossing her arms and ignoring the heat searing through her. 

He grins at her and the dazzling smile almost draws one out of her before she forces it back down. 

He must see her lips twitch because he takes the empty seat on her right, resting his messenger bag at his feet. His shoes look expensive and comfortable next to her own boots. They were a gift from Ianthe and as much as she hated the woman, the boots were sturdy.

"So do you usually draw random men while stuck at the airport or am I just special?"

Feyre's sure her face is glowing but she doesn't back down. She would not let this man embarrass her. Glaring, she says, "Oh no, you're special. I've just never seen someone leach so much arrogance while reading a book. I had to try and capture it, you understand."

He smirks at her and holds out his hand.  "Rhysand."

"Feyre."

Rhysand repeats her name like he's tasting it for the first time and smirks again. 

He nods at her sketchbook and she covers it with her arm protectively. "So?"

"So what?"

"Do I get to see the sketch done by the lovely lady?"

She blushes at the flattery. It's been so long since it sounded honest and flirty; it was nice. She wasn't the cheating type. Issac and she had been on speed dial so it wasn't anything when she met Tamlin and he had met his wife. 

But she loved Tamlin. Or did at one time. He'd given her so much along with the ring she didn't wear on this trip to visit her sisters. The one hidden in her carry on in a plastic baggie two inches from her left knee. 

Rhysand grins. "Will it help if I say 'please'?"

She gives him an exasperated look which makes him smile grow as she obliges him and opens the sketchbook to the first drawing. 

"I'm not much of a drawer, or an artist at all, really," she says quietly for the benefit of those sleeping around them. "I like painting more, but I'm out of practice. And obviously I can't bring an easel on the plane."

"You could try," Rhysand murmurs distractedly, tilting the book toward him more. His fingers brush her knee as he pulls it toward him. He quickly pulls it back so she lets it go as an accident. She fights the urge to squirm as he studies the sketch silently. 

He turns the page to the other sketch and takes his hand away again. Feyre had to admit this one is better, but his hair still isn't right so it looks like his hair just stops in the air. She uses the pencil to slightly shade it in. It's not good, yet Rhysand seems fascinated by the lines the lead leaves behind. 

"Some people bring books, some bring crosswords, and others bring tablets to the airport to kill time," he says, "but Feyre makes masterpieces."

She bites her lip and picks at her thumbnail, trying to ignore the compliment no matter how untrue it is, but fails spectacularly as pride bubbles in her chest. It'd been a long time since she let anyone look at her art and even longer since someone's praised it. 

"Like I said, I'm not much of an artist, so it's definitely not a masterpiece."

"Could've fooled me." 

She smiles at him again, this time not ducking her head. She lets him see it for a moment before pulling a granola bar out of her bag. Snapping it in half, she offers half to him. 

He hesitates before taking it. Her chewing seems extraordinarily loud in the quiet. She slips the sketchbook away and tosses the wrapper, and when she comes back his half is gone as well. 

"Why are you going to Prythian?"

Rhysand adjusts himself so he's facing her, ankle over knee again. He makes the chairs look comfortable. 

She tugs her sweater sleeves down. "I'm going home. I came and visited my sisters and my dad."

"Oh? Are your sisters as charming and talented as you?"

"Elain is the best one. She's the second oldest and has a green thumb. Nesta... tried to paint with me once but didn't take to it. How about you? Do you have siblings as arrogant as you?"

A wide grin spreads over his face, "Oh definitely. I have two adopted brothers, Cassian and Az, and my cousin Mor is like a sister to me. Cassian is even more arrogant than I am."

"Impossible."

"It's true."

By one her face starts to hurt from smiling so much. Rhysand tells her stories about epic snowball fights that lasted far into the night and microwaved s'mores. It makes her wish she had stories to share too. 

She must fall asleep at some point because he shakes her awake. Her face is numb and her neck has an awful crick in it. She massages it and looks at Rhysand. His jacket is rumpled at one shoulder, hair sticking up on the same side.

“I am so sorry,” Feyre apologizes. It must be nearly nine and the airport is already alive with movement. Children hang sleepily over shoulders as their parents gather up their things.

Rhysand rubs his eyes. “I’ll forgive you if you forgive me, I think I slept on you too.” He offers her a tired smile, “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Snow plows sweep the runways in the distance as they walk towards a small café filled with others who had the same idea. Someone brushes past her with a cup and Feyre inhales the aroma, wishing the line would move faster just so she could get closer to the smells.

Rhysand distracts her by pointing out the tourist shirts across the way, and before long she’s fighting down smiles again. He grins at her wickedly when she snorts at his joke about the fanny packs.

They both order black coffees but Feyre is horrified to watch Rhysand dump enough sugar and cream into his cup to make it look like a cappuccino.

“Why order a coffee at all if you’re going to ruin it like that?”

Rhysand stirs his drink with a small red straw, “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s perfect.”

“Perfect if you want cavities.”

He grins at her and it makes her stomach do something funny, so she looks down into her own cup. With a jolt, she feels her phone vibrates in her pocket. Pulling it out, Tamlin’s face fills the screen. It’s an old picture taken a few weeks after they started dating. Something in his eyes had changed since then.

She steps away from Rhysand with her coffee, “Hello?”

“Oh, thank the Cauldron,” Tamlin says, “Why didn’t you answer my texts?”

“I fell asleep and my phone was on silent.”

His side is quiet so she takes a sip of her coffee. It’s too hot, but it focuses her a little.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “They’re clearing the runways now. Planes should start taking off soon.”

Tamlin sighs. “Okay. Text me when you start boarding. Lucien will pick you up. I’ve got to go. I love you.”

“You, too.” Feyre ends the call and rubs her eyes. When she looks up Rhysand’s still stirring his drink, his eyes on her.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. She can hear how quiet her voice has become. Tamlin had a habit of doing that to her lately. “I’m fine. Just arranging who’s picking me up when we land.”

“And who gets that pleasure?” They start heading back to their gate. The snow plows are making quick work of the runways, to her chagrin.

“A friend.” The morning sun shines through the big glass windows. It highlights Rhysand’s tan and his sharp features as he tips his head back and takes a drink of his coffee. Feyre looks down and watches her feet.

He sits down next to her again, but she focuses on her coffee instead of making conversation. Time slips away from her. She’s not even sure how she answers Rhysand’s questions until he falls silent as well.

 

*** 

 

The recycled air of the cabin blows through her hair. She’d never flown first class before meeting Tamlin, never dreamed of flying. She always expected to stay in Mortland with her sisters and father. How things changed.

She sits crossways behind Rhysand. He had sent her a quick smirk before sliding on headphones and a purple eye mask. It almost drew a smile out of her.

The pavement morphs into grey lines as the plane starts to pick up speed for takeoff. She feels it in her belly when they leave the ground. The first time she’d flown was two weeks ago when she boarded the plane alone and listened attentively to the flight attendants go through the safety drill, fingers digging into the plastic armrests.

Now her sketchbook rests on the little table in front on her as she absently draws Rhysand’s hair, matted by the mask and headphones. The corner of her lips tugs up as they make their away above the clouds. The sun turning the clouds gold make her fingers itch for a paintbrush.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's been 90 degrees Fahrenheit the last few days, so let's write a fic that has snow in it"- my mind
> 
> As the tags say, this takes place on Winter Solstice even though its not mentioned in the fic. I might make this part of series revolving around Rhys and Feyre in a modern AU. Thanks for reading!


	2. Hazy Skies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months later, Feyre and Rhys find each other in a crowded restaurant, but things have changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own A Court of Thorns and Roses or the characters.
> 
> Constructive criticism wanted! Thanks for reading!

She should've known better by now, but as long as she was here, she was getting cake.

Feyre flags down the waiter who's been looking at her with pity along with half the other staff for the last hour. He gives another pitiful look before scribbling down her order and hurrying away. 

Tucking her laced fingers under her chin, she scans the restaurant. She's never liked the ones like this. They were too quiet with murmured business deals, promises to mistresses, and the soft scraping of forks and knives against the classical music floating above them. She was surprised they didn't have a live band in such an expensive place. Even the dim lighting seemed to scream class at her. 

She takes another sip of wine and leans back in her chair, watching the two men across from her give each other death glares. At first she had wondered why Tamlin brought her to these places. After a while it became clear he was disguising his business espionage as dates. 

The waiter brings her a large piece of chocolate cake with a frosted rose. She waits until he's gone to scoop the flower off and smash it with her fork. 

The cake was almost good enough to make up for being stood up at a fancy restaurant. She takes another bite, savoring the soft chocolate with her eyes shut. She wonders absently if she should ask Lucien to meet up with her before she doesn't care if she's alone or not. 

She scrapes the chocolate off her fork with her teeth when they walk in. 

The restaurant seems to still for only a moment and then starts alive again. The posse entering wears tailored clothing and look like a million dollars, but that's not why she nearly chokes on a cake crumb. 

Feyre had only seen him one time, or rather for one day. Sleeping on the man you drew and then getting coffee with him didn't count as knowing someone, but she had tried to sketch him so many times it was impossible to forget the face she could never quite get right. 

His jaw was still as sharp as it had been that December and his eyes were even brighter now. Her scraped drawings flash through her head and she realizes she never even came close, not even the one she made at the airport compared to the real thing. 

The four others with him are just as devastating. The woman, small and powerful, glares at the other handsome men. But it's the other woman with the golden hair hanging off Rhysand's arm that catches her eye. The woman says something, bringing a familiar smirk to Rhysand's face. 

Four months ago, when they had landed, she had spotted Lucien at the terminal and decided she never met Rhysand. The hurt on the beautiful face haunted her for weeks until she postponed her wedding when the what-ifs hit her hard instead. 

She told herself it was ridiculous and wrong to daydream of someone who wasn't her fiancé, but he had been sweet, flattering, and kind. He made her cheeks hurt with smiles, something she could only vaguely recall with an ache. 

Postponing the wedding two weeks beforehand wasn't pleasant, but it was the best idea she had. Explaining why she didn't think the first day of spring was a good day to say 'I do' bought her some much needed thinking time. Thinking that usually led back to feeling happier about her sisters and a stranger than the man lying next to her in her bed.

Rhysand and his posse pass right by her table as she takes another bite of cake. If she hadn't been watching, she would have missed his slight stumble and the confused look the blonde throws him. Feyre meets his wide eyes, cake still trapped in her mouth. 

She swallows with her hand over her mouth as Rhysand waves his group after the hostess. They throw him a questioning look, their eyes flicking toward her as he takes the seat opposite her. He waves at them again before twisting in his seat.

His eyes land her plate. "Are you going to finish that, Feyre darling?"

And then he gives her that Cauldron-damned smile.

She gestures to it and he unravels the napkin holding the silverware. He steals a small bite, nods approvingly, and sets the fork down. 

"You can have more than that."

He pats his flat stomach, "I have to watch my figure, darling."

She rolls her eyes and takes her own bite. Spearing another piece, she asks, "What're you doing here?"

“The same as you. Recommend any dishes? What did you have?”

Feyre gestures to the cake, now half gone. Something flashes in Rhysand’s eyes and he rests his elbows on the table. “That’s your dinner?”

“Have to watch my figure,” she mocks.

“Feyre, you are many chocolate cakes away from needing to worry about that.”

Narrowing her eyes, she takes her last bite, pointedly laying her napkin next to her plate. She leans back in her chair with her wine, studying him as he studies her. He’s gained more color since winter, looks healthier in general. The glow from his smirk at the hostess stands has dimmed.

The man across from her in the dark blue suit was responsible for her stumbling engagement. He had waltzed into her life and stayed long after he had left, in her dreams and in the back of her mind whenever Tamlin made coffee. She couldn’t even drink the stuff anymore without seeing blue eyes and dark hair, but her hands and heart long for a brush to capture that crease between his brows.

She sets her glass on the table without meeting his eyes, running her finger down the stem of her wine glass. “What do you want, Rhysand?”

“A ‘hello’ would be nice.”

“Hello.”

Silence fills the air around the table like a bubble. It’s the exact opposite of how they were on Winter Solstice. Still, it wasn’t much different than if Tamlin was in his seat instead.

“Can I get you anything else, ma’am? Sir?”

The waiter’s eyes flicker between the two of them. Rhysand opens his mouth just as she says, “A check, and my coat, please.”

“Feyre-”

“It’s on the house.” He nods at the cake crumbs and then looks abashedly at Rhysand, but he’s watching her.

She unclasps her clutch, pulling out Tamlin’s debit card, “I insist.”

He nods again and hurries off. When she looks up Rhysand’s narrows her eyes at her. “Come join us for dinner.”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Rhysand’s lifts his hands a little before lowering them back down, “You seem different.”

“You knew me for twelve hours, not even. You don’t know me.”

His eyes widen a fraction at her sharp tone before they narrow again. She narrows her own back. They stare at each other until the waiter puts a receipt and pen down in front of her. It’s signed with a simple line before he can take away her plate.

She takes her coat and is at the door before Rhysand can begin to follow.

 

***

 

He doesn’t try to follow her, but he watches through the restaurant’s big glass windows as she hails a taxi and climbs in without a backward glance. Dalt takes away Feyre’s check with only a glance at him as he resists the urge to rub his eyes.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, shoves his fists into his pockets, and heads toward the private room where his family waits. He ignores the business partners whispering around him for once and keeps his eyes forward and his mind on Feyre.

He had known for her less than twelve hours, but he thought he felt something spark when they laughed together and when he woke up with her hair tickling his nose. But she was right; he didn’t know her.

Rhys had thought maybe she was a young widow or a woman going through a divorce as she kept touching her empty ring finger. Now he knew she was reaching for a gaudy green stone that dominated her hand. Why she hadn’t worn it at the airport, he didn’t know, but it certainly smothered the flame that had flared when he spotted her sitting alone with cake.

If it was possible, she looked even worse than she had in December. With skin stretched tight over her cheekbones and her bones jutting out of her wrists, she could easily be mistaken for a skeleton. Even her hair seemed faded.

Her biting words at the airport had hurt him deeply, he could admit that, but the woman he spoke to was not her nor was it the one he flirted with. No, this woman had blue-grey eyes that were cold and dim and lost. Rhys had seen his own eyes look like that in the past five years when he was given a mirror; he knew what kind of things caused them, they were why he let her walk into the night alone.

He takes a breath and pushes open the door leading to their private party area. He only has a moment before he’s bombarded by Cassian.

“Who was that? What’s her name?”

Rhys takes his seat at the head of the table. The room wasn’t really private, but the walls were an illusion he knew he couldn’t fall for. He grabs a piece of bread from the center of the table and dips it in oil.

“Just someone I met once,” he says casually.

“That was Feyre wasn’t it?”

Mor has always known him best. Although he, Cassian, and Az had grown up under the same roof, Mor and him always had a special connection. That connection was what made him spill all about Feyre on their car ride home from the airport.

He nods, drinking his water as they remember the girl they walked passed. He had told them all about her in passing when they asked about his trip home, but there were more pressing matters to deal with at the time, yet Mor had heard everything, even the things he didn’t say.

“Why didn’t you invite her to eat with us?” Mor admonishes.

“I did. She said she wasn’t hungry.”

“She was eating dessert,” Azriel says, “She probably already ate.”

Rhys shakes his head. “No, that was her dinner.”

“She had _cake_ for _dinner_? Rhys, if you don’t marry her, I will.”

When he doesn’t reply, Mor throws Cassian a look and then turns to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he lies.

Four unimpressed faces meet his. Lying to them was pointless, they knew him so well, but he ignores them and thanks the Mother when the waitress comes in and takes their orders.

 

***

 

No one is home when the taxi drops her off. Toeing off her heels, the lifts a weight off her shoulders. Something was wrong when she was relieved that her fiancé was out somewhere, somewhere she didn’t know. She drops her clutch on the dresser without turning on the light and throws her dress over a chair before climbing into bed in her underwear. The silky comforter slips over skin as she curls her toes.

She’s still awake when the door creaks open. As she listens, Tamlin changes his clothes and slides into bed next to her. Once upon a time he would’ve brushed the hair off her face, kissed her brow.

Now she does it instead. His hair glides through her fingers and she cups the back of his head, pulling him closer and finding his lips in the dark by memory. She tugs at his bottom lip and it tastes like toothpaste. His fingers start tapping her ribs, going down until she pulls it to her lips and kisses it.

“Not tonight,” she whispers into his palm.

She feels him fall onto his back, the mattress bouncing slightly. “You said that last night, and the night before that, and the one before that.”

“I want to talk.”

He rolls towards her and his breath blows across her face. “Talk about what? How you’re avoiding me? You haven’t been the same since you visited your sisters.”

“What?” Feyre pushes herself up, matching the feeling rising in her chest. “I’m not avoiding you.”

He snorts.

“I was the one who ate alone tonight, Tamlin. I came home to an empty house, not you.”

“I had a meeting.”

“Until twelve?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” he says, rolling back onto his back.

She bites the lip he was just sucking on. _I’m not an idiot,_ but the words stay trapped in her throat. The argument always spins in circles until one of them stomps away. They have it down so well someone would believe they rehearsed it.

Cake crumbs stick to her molars. She pokes them with her tongue but they don’t budge, and she doesn’t have the energy to get up again and brush them. She doesn’t want to taste mint. Their curtains are parted enough to see the sky and the streetlights blocking out the stars. Tucking the cold comforter under her chin, she pulls her knees to her chest as Tamlin begins to snore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos! Do you want more of Rhys' POV? I'm not sure if he'll have full chapters yet or just snippets put in. The next chapters won't have a big time jump like this one did-it was kind of a filler. Thanks for reading!


	3. Crash

It takes her until noon to crawl out of bed, and even then it's a struggle. She used to be a morning person. One of those people who would get up with the sun. 

She presses her face against the pillow and lets it steal her breath for a minute before opening her eyes. The bed is cold so she doesn't bother looking to see if he's there. 

Her dress lies defeatedly on the chair in the corner like its ready to fall on the ground. She slips it on a hanger and shoves it between the rest just like it stuffed in her side of the closet. 

Slipping on a soft dress, more of a nightie, she fixes the bed. His side is already made. It takes everything in her not to collapse back on to it and let unconsciousness take her into the dark. 

The bedroom is bigger than necessary. Really, the entire house is. Her family's old one room apartment could fill Tamlin's home a dozen times and there would still be space leftover. 

When she had first stepped through the threshold, she had thought someone could be on the other side of the house and they'd never know. She wasn't wrong. It had taken her a week to realize Alis was their stay-in housekeeper. 

Lately she kept to her own rooms.  _Rooms_. Feyre wasn't painting and Tamlin was rarely home. There weren't any messes. Feyre wasn't even sure she was staying with them anymore. 

The kitchen is spotless as she pads between the counters and island. She digs some peanut butter out of the cabinet, finds a spoon, and hops up on the counter. 

Rhysand creeps his way into her thoughts while she's scraping the peanut butter off the sides of the jar. 

She didn't know the odds of ever meeting him again, but she knew they weren't high. She had always had shitty luck. With renewed vigor, she polishes off the jar. 

Then she sits on the counter, the jar dangling in her hands between her knees. It clatters around the empty sink when she throws it. 

Massaging her temples, her feet take her to the sunroom. Alis never touched it after Feyre asked her not to. A blank canvas rests on its easel; the easel Tamlin had bought her on their one-month anniversary. Stained and dusty, it's the only thing that proves someone lived here. 

She sits gingerly on the stool, her toes wrapping around one of its bars. 

Sketching was one thing, painting was another. The smooth shifts of the pencil had nothing on the sweeping of the brush across the canvas. 

She had placed this canvas over six months ago, long enough that she forgot what she wanted to paint. Tamlin had stopped buying her paints when she stopped using them. 

She reaches a hesitant hand toward the easel. Maybe if she felt fresh canvas, something would come to her. 

But it's like a plane of glass keeps her finger away, of course, that's ridiculous, except she can't make herself move any closer. She knows when she touches the white, nothing will bloom behind her eyes. 

Feyre leans back, cradling her hand in betrayal. Some vital part of her had shriveled up like a worm and died, but didn't decay. A vital part of her that she loved to coax into life. Instead it sat there like an unhealed wound she wasn't supposed to touch. 

Eyes burning, she leaves the sunroom and slips on leggings and a tunic. 

The Rainbow was her favorite place, or it had been. She doesn't know if it's the official name of the street or something everyone knows it by, but it's fitting. 

The stores aren't in rainbow order, and there's dozen of each color down the street but charm still radiates down its cobbled street. It reminds her of a time when things must have been peaceful, simpler. 

Perhaps the part she loves about the Rainbow the dedication of Velaris put into it. The company saved the stores from being bought out. From Tamlin's few explanations she knew the street was valuable real estate because of the tourism. She was happy Velaris stepped in no matter what Tamlin said. The Rainbow wouldn't be the Rainbow otherwise. 

The bell twinkles above her when she pushes it open. It's a sweet sort of sound. 

A young woman behind the counter greets her before she ducks back through a doorway. 

Feyre stands in the entrance for a moment before making her way to the scarves. They hang on door knobs made into hooks and have an entire wall to themselves. They're arranged in color order. 

Infinite scarves take up one side and long crocheted ones the other but they're all delicately made. Feyre can see the craftsmanship put into them. 

One thing about the Rainbow was that it was all fair trade, mostly thanks to Velaris. She heard they got into trouble awhile back but she never heard any more about it. When she has first visited the street, and learned of Velaris, she may have held a small dream of opening her own painting gallery. 

The clerk follows a woman out of the backroom. Feyre takes a second glance when she catches the sight of golden hair. 

It's the woman from the restaurant. The one that was being led by Rhysand. She had looked directly at Feyre when Rhysand had sat down at her table and shooed them away. 

She turns around quickly and starts fiddling with a scarf. The woman says goodbye to the clerk and Feyre sighs with relief. 

"That's one of my favorites."

Feyre nearly jumps out of her skin. The woman smiles at her, her white teeth immaculate against her red lips. 

It takes a moment for Feyre to get her tongue to work. "Yes, it's very beautiful."

"I saw you last night. At the restaurant," she smiles. "You stole Rhys away."

 _Rhys_. It's fitting for the man she met at the airport. Playful compared to Rhysand. 

Feyre ducks her head. "Sorry about that. He just came over."

The woman laughs. "Oh, I know that. I don't blame you. My name is Mor."

They shake hands, and she can't help admiring the beautiful bracelets on her tan wrists. "Feyre."

Mor studies her and her eyes flicker back to the scarf. It's a lacy grey thing that she can't but touch its silkiness. 

"It would look lovely with your eyes," Mor says. 

"Thank you, but I'm just browsing for now. My sister's birthday is in a few weeks."

"Oh?"

Mor asks her questions about Elain, and then eventually Nesta. She leads Feyre around the shop. They talk about the scarves and the Rainbow. 

Feyre's extremely grateful to Mor for not bringing up the restaurant again. Last night she had thought how strange it was for to only have cake at a five-star restaurant. Had she been Rhys, she'd mention the oddity to her friends. 

But the conversation drains her. Rhys had been her longest conservationist partner in nearly half a year, and Lucien was rarely around anymore. Alis had her nephews to take care of. 

Mor was a pleasant talker. She seemed to think about her words before speaking and didn't seem to be trying to just chat Feyre up to make a sale. 

It was nice to talk to another woman for a change. 

Suddenly, a thought occurs to her. 

"You're Mor!"

Mor stops talking about her favorite sweet store and cocks an eyebrow at her. "I thought we established this," she says with a confused twist to her lips. 

"We did, it's just that Rhysand -Rhys- mentioned you when I asked him about siblings."

"Well, I hope he said only good things."

"He said you were a cousin of his but more like a sister."

A gentle expression falls across her face for a second and then says, "He didn't say anything about my gorgeous looks? My stunning personality?"

"He said Cassian was the most arrogant." 

Mor cackles at that. "Do you want to get some ice cream?"

Before Feyre can answer, Mor's arm is already linked through hers. Mor shouts out a goodbye to the clerk and drags Feyre out the door. 

They don't go far. The ice cream parlor is only a few doors down and isn't crowed yet despite the growing traffic on the sidewalks. 

She orders the same thing as Mor. They sit on the seats under the awning, licking their cones and watching people pass by. 

The ice cream revives her taste buds. Rhys' voice about the cake for dinner echoes through her mind. Perhaps she should start eating more fruit and vegetables. 

"So, do you like the Rainbow?" Mor asks, taking a huge bite out of her ice cream. 

"I love it," Feyre says quietly. She's not sure if Mor can even hear her. "I always have."

Mor looks like she wants to ask a question but then seems to change her mind. 

"You must like the arts then."

Feyre nods. 

"Do you make anything?"

"I used to paint."

The ice cream suddenly tastes plain and milky. She wipes her mouth with a napkin and then drops it into the nearby trash bin. She doesn't sit again. Instead she hesitantly stands at the edge of the table lined with mosaic.  

Feyre rubs her hands on her leggings. "Thank you for the ice cream, but I have to get going."

"I really liked talking to you, Feyre. Do you want to exchange numbers?"

She willingly hands over her phone as Mor types in her number. She wonders if Mor knows she won't text her. 

"It was nice meeting you, Feyre."

"You, too."

She leaves the ice cream and woman behind, pushing her way through the crowded sidewalk. Someone nearly hits her with his bicycle when she escapes into the street. 

The way home is a blur. She remembers dodging some sprinklers and some more people on bicycles. Locking the door behind her, she puts her dizzy head into her hands. 

Was it always that easy to talk to people? She knows some people are difficult, but Mor made her want to talk until she brought up art, specifically if Feyre made any. She thinks of the intangible wall between herself and the canvas. 

Art had always come easily to her. Whether it be painting the furniture in her family's apartment or painting on a mural wall, it flowed from her mind to her fingers to whatever her canvas was. 

Her feet lead her back to the sunroom like they had hours before. 

Maybe, maybe she didn't need to create something pretty. Or something to be hung on a wall. Maybe it could be something that would never see the light of day again. 

She finds her favorite brush and opens her paint trunk. Oils, watercolors, tempera, acrylic. She grabs a tube. 

The paint spreads over the piece of tile she uses as a palette. It builds like icing before melting into a thick puddle of paint. It moves like lava when she tilts the tile. She dips her brush into it. Paint clings onto it, much more than she'd ever use before. 

And her hand hits the invisible wall. 

Red paint streaks its way down her brush as it trembles between her fingers. It spreads over her hand like bright new blood. It wraps around her wrist pretending to be ribbons. 

Gravity pulls it down and the trails lead to her elbow until it drips to the floor, marring the wood. Maybe Tamlin was right; she should've gotten a tarp. 

She gathers up more paint in the bristles, and hits the wall again, and again, and again. 

A sob chokes her. It used to be so easy, as easy as breathing. Everything was. 

Then she had to come along and fuck it all up. Every little thing. 

Feyre throws the paint. It hits the canvas and knocks down the easel, red streaks down the window, like the blood at the gas station door. 

She pulls her knees close to her chest as another sob hits her. Paint flies when she starts slapping the floor. It splashes on the walls and the door and her clothes, over and over until her palm starts to sting.

Her breath puffs against the hand she holds against her mouth. Her stomach aches from gasping with the sobs, but she stands and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

She tugs on the bottom of her tunic, staining it with red. Her lip quivers as she looks down at herself. Her leggings hang loosely off her thighs and the tunic swings freely away from her stomach with nothing to cling on. Her breasts are smaller.

She knows she should eat. She should feel hungry, but the paint on the windows steal it away. Because its paint and not blood. The thought runs on repeat as she changes back into nightclothes and crawls back into bed without falling into the deep darkness she desires.   


	4. Ghosts and Mirrors

Ever since Mor had told him she had run into Feyre at the Rainbow, he'd been finding himself there more and more. Strictly for business, of course. 

Truth, an older woman who had her granddaughter running her store, was having trouble with Hybern trying to buy their lot of the Rainbow and they were making it a pain in the ass for both Truth and Velaris. 

Rhys escapes from the candle shop into the drizzling rain. The weather was keeping most of the tourists away, but some locals he recognizes as clients take their time going from awning to awning to shop. 

He pops open his own umbrella as he heads into the street. The rain prints patterns on the umbrella and his pants, but it's cold and he wants to go home. It'd been a long day of looking for legal loopholes and comforting Truth's worries. 

He debates making his way to the scarf shop to see if Feyre is there. 

Part of him felt like a stalker hoping to run into her. He had never felt a pull to help someone like Feyre before. The only thing that could rival it was Velaris. It was trying to make a better world and that was something he could support. 

But Feyre was a stranger he had only meant twice in less than half a year. He had no right to be so concerned for her. 

His feet lead him in the direction of the scarf shop but he wanted the wine shop across from it. 

The bell twinkles above him pleasantly as he wipes his shoes on the mat. It was one of his favorite places in the Rainbow. The atmosphere and drinks were some of the best he’s and Cassian’s found.

"Rhys!"

"Hello, Jonathan," he smiles at the man behind the counter who’s already pulling out a glass. The man wasn’t built to split up bar fights but he could throw you a wicked glare. He ran his winery and shop well.

Jonathan pours amber into the glass and slides it to Rhys as he takes a seat, “Been awhile,” he says, pouring a glass for himself.

Taking a drink, he asks, “You can say that again. Has Hybern been bothering you at all?”

Jonathan sets down his glass. “Unfortunately. I heard about Truth. Was it that new guy?”

At Rhys’ frown he continues, “Blonde? ‘Bout this tall. I think he said his name was Rose.”

Rhys curses under his breath, “Tamlin Rose?”

“You got it,” but Rhys is already texting Az and Cass. He looks back up, “I’ll come in another time, Jon, but I really have to take care of this. If Tamlin is involved, then Velaris might be in trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry about it- just going to be rough for me and my team for a while. Stay strong if Hybern comes around again, all they can really do is put pressure on you until you sell, but watch out.” Rhys frowns, “I really did plan on staying longer and getting drunk and mopey. Put this on my tab?”

“On the house.”

“Tab!” He calls behind him, the bell tinkling again.

The drizzle evolved into a downpour the few minutes inside, the rain pounding down on the awnings. Rhys had good vision and he can barely see across the street. He’s sure it’s a trick of the rain and shadows when a dark figure crosses the street to his side. He can’t imagine any reason to be out in this if one didn’t have to be.

He reluctantly puts his umbrella away when the wind starts pulling it away and flips his collar up. The figure passes him by looking as miserable as he felt.

The rain forces his eyes to the ground as wind and rain start to burn them. Puddles ripple against the downpour and he tries to avoid them as much as possible until he reaches the train.

Rhys presses as much of his body under the short ledge as he can. As much as he loves the view from the elevated rails, it would be nice to be underground with heat and a ceiling.

Another figure sits on a bench farther down, head pressed to their knees without a hood. Rhys’ heart aches at the sight. The wind isn’t as strong right here, he thinks.

He leaves his little shelter behind and makes his way over to them. The rain seems to lighten as he gets closer.

“Would you like my umbrella?” He asks. He has leftovers at home from his various guests and family members.

Bloodshot eyes look up. Grey-blue eyes he met in an airport, a restaurant and in his dreams.

“Feyre?”

She furiously scrubs the tears and rain on her cheeks. He doesn’t try to stop her. He watches her try to find her composure only to apparently only find a very shaky one.

“What do you want?” She demands, her voice wobbling.

Rhys holds the umbrella over them both, “What are you doing out here in this storm?”

She stands up, only a few inches shorter than him, and as far away from him as possible, but she doesn’t step out from under the umbrella.

A bag shoved under the bench catches his eye but he says nothing. He waits for her to speak. When she does, he can’t hear her over the renewed shower.

“What?”

“I... I have nowhere to go. I was going to go to a hotel, but,” she starts to wipe her nose and then stops. “Can I help you?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Her hair clings to her forehead and her red eyes stand starkly out from her pale skin under the station’s lights. Rhys fights the urge to wipe the strands off her face knowing how that would come across. Instead he puts one hand in his pocket, tightening his grip on the umbrella with the other.

“I don’t need your help.”

“Uh-huh, so you’re going to ride the train going to anywhere all night? Is that your plan?”

Feyre gives him a dirty look slightly dampened by her appearance. He narrows his eyes back at her. No way in hell was he going to leave her on this platform, even if he had to annoy her into leaving it.

The screen above them says the train arrives in two minutes.

“Seriously, is that your plan? Because if it is, it’s awful.” He resists the urge to wince at his business voice.

She crosses her arms and looks away. She’s not even wearing a real raincoat, just some fabric thing that was absorbing water by the second. It’s practically engulfing her. If it wasn’t obviously feminine clothing, he’d think it was a man’s jacket.

Softening his voice, he asks, “Do you want to go to Mor’s?”

That brings her attention back to him. Rhys continues, “She told me she ran into you and that you two were texting. I highly doubt she’d mind, Mother knows the rest of us have crashed on her couch enough times.”

Rhys averts his eyes when she bites her lower lip. His house had more room than Mor’s but had he offered his own hospitality, Feyre may have run the other way. She would find more comfort in a friend and woman anyway.

“I don’t want to impose…” But Rhys can hear the hope in her voice.

“You’re not. I told you, Mor’s like my sister. I know she’s not going to mind unless you refuse to stay.”

The train squeals in behind him, and he grabs her bag, holding it out to her. She takes it and nods without meeting his eyes, but it’s not until she steps on the train does he release a breath.

Water splatters on the floor when he shakes out the umbrella while Feyre sits on an orange seat without a word. Rhys takes the seat across from her and watches her play with the end of her sleeve. Dried red paint coats some of her nails. It’s the only bright color she wears.

Rain roars down on the train and streams across the windows, filling the silence for them. She doesn’t ask for Mor’s address so he assigns himself as her escort. They have a few stops, so he pulls out his phone to text his cousin and read the messages from his brothers.

They’re initially filled with swears but eventually devolve into plans and information and contacts to meet. Rhys rubs a hand over his face. He had forgotten about Tamlin in finding Feyre. He can already feel tomorrow’s headache, and the day after’s.

When the doors open at Mor’s station he pops the umbrella to the much lighter rain. Really, they don’t need it, but by how pale Feyre’s grown he hopes his cousin laid out some pajamas for her.

Rhys buzzes the intercom instead of letting himself in with her spare key. Mor unlocks the door immediately and Rhys ushers Feyre in as thunder starts above them.

They leave small puddles in their wake as they climb the stairs to the next floor. Mor’s door is already propped open for them. He pushes it the rest of the way and drops Feyre’s bag that he insisted carrying on one of Mor’s three couches.

He catches Feyre staring at them. “I told you we crashed on her couches.”

“You didn’t say you all were here at the same time.”

Rhys shrugs as Mor emerges from the hallway. Her long hair is down and in a sweater and leggings. He’s happy she was preparing for a night in and not planning on taking Feyre out.

“Feyre!” She hugs the other woman without hesitating to touch the soaked clothing. When she pulls away, her hands stay on Feyre’s shoulders. “Hey,” she says to him.

“I see how it is,” Rhys says, pretending to be hurt.

“I see you literally every day,” she turns to Feyre. “Velaris and Rhys would fall apart without me.”

Feyre looks between them. “You work for Velaris?”

“We own it.”

“Mor…” Rhys warns.

She just waves a hand at him while looking at Feyre. “I laid out some clothes for you in the guestroom on the left. The bathroom’s right next to it if you want to shower. Use anything you want.”

Feyre hesitates before hanging her coat on the hook. She holds a hand to her throat, “The Rainbow is a beautiful place,” she says quietly, “and Velaris is a great company. I think it’s what you’re doing is great.”

She nods once to herself and then walks toward the hall.

Rhys watches her walk away, fighting the smile the warmth building in his stomach brings. No matter how many times he heard it, compliments on the street also boosted his pride and mood. _She liked Velaris._

Mor gives him a questioningly glance and he quietly explains to her what happened in the past hour. When they hear the shower start, they speak stop whispering.

“I wonder what’s in her bag, it’s so small.”

“Not everyone needs as much clothing as you do.”

She elbows his stomach, “You’re one to talk. What’s this about Tamlin Rose?”

He tells her about Jonathan but wonders himself what is going on with the man. Tamlin rarely, if ever, entered the Rainbow after their fallout. It would be many lifetimes before he forgave Tamlin, but if he messed with Velaris, it would be much, much longer.

“Do you think Amarantha has anything to do with it?”

Rhys flinches at the name and Mor gives him an apologetic grimace. “Maybe, I’m not sure. I hope it doesn’t.”

“We all do,” Mor pats his shoulder.

She offers him a glass of water before she shoves him out the door saying if Feyre needed to use all the hot water she could and she didn’t need him to babysit her. He protests but the door is shut in his face with a promise of Mor seeing him tomorrow at the office.

He trudges his way back to the train station, wondering if he really was hovering. It takes only one stop to get to his townhouse. Much too large for one person, the quiet presses in on him and he argues with his pride about inviting Az or Cassian over for the night to drown the silence out.

Instead, he strips and crawls into bed after towel drying his hair and throwing his clothes in the laundry basket. The darkness presses around him the longer he tries to force himself to sleep. Whatever sleepiness that he had disappeared when Tamlin and Amarantha entered his thoughts. Feyre just added to the alertness.

Rhys had thought he conquered sleep back at The Mountain when it was only the oppressive heat of a body next to his and the stifling dark. He had learned to crawl deep into himself in wakefulness and in sleep but returning to Prythian erased all that.

He hadn’t told anyone. He wouldn’t survive seeing their expressions if he told them what he did and why. They didn’t need that burden when he could handle it.

Rhys massages his temples causing stars to burst behind his eyes like white fuzz.

Sometimes, although he knew he shouldn’t and it was useless, he thought of all the mistakes he made that led him to The Mountain. It wasn’t even a mountain. It was more of a dismal mine under a mountain he was happy to escape.

Late at night, when the dark was too heavy and air too still, she would come back to him.

_She suddenly cackles, making him jump, but just barely._

_“What?” He asks. It was never good when she laughed._

_“You really think you’re going to get out of here, don’t you?”_

_He doesn’t answer._

_A nail strokes his spine, “Don’t you know if you leave you’re just going to keep coming back?”_

He swore to himself and the Mother that he wasn’t ever going back there.

But nearly every night, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there will be happier times ahead... along with not so happy...  
> Thanks for reading, leaving comments, and kudos! They make my day :)


	5. Vines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:  
> There's a little bit of domestic abuse and violence in this and non-consensual kissing. Personally, I don't think it's very much but I wanted to put a warning because I know people go through different things and are affected differently, and I didn't want to hurt anyone.
> 
> I wanted to make what Feyre goes through with Tamlin in the books into this modern AU. If you want to see what I mean, I've updated the tags with I think may cover what happens in this chapter although the tags may make it sound more extreme than I think it is.

It smells differently and she doesn't recognize the bed beneath her but something inside her belly tells her it's too good to be true. 

_She fingers the ring. It really is too big for her finger, the emerald nearly the size of her knuckle. Every time she tries to balance it on the fake grain it topples over. When Tamlin had first knelt and pulled out the ring, she thought it was fake. Not the ring: the question._

_The front door opens and shuts. It echoes all the way back to her. The dining room was so far away from the entrance that Feyre was surprised by it until she understood it was for Tamlin’s clients to see all his finery on the way to dinner._

_She stands and pushes her chair in with ring in hand._

He'll understand, _she thinks._ I've already postponed once, I can do it again.

_But her hands tremble, because this is the real thing, final. She doesn’t know where she’ll go, but she couldn’t stay here. Not in this house with memories covering the rooms like the paint around her. She presses her fists against her thighs._

_Alis wasn’t here. Feyre had knocked on her door multiple times and searched the house without finding the woman. She didn’t feel close to the woman, but it would be nice if someone else could hear her side._

_Tamlin pauses in the archway when he sees her. Feyre resists the urge to hide her bare fingers._

_“I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, walking passed her and opening the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine._

_“I live here, remember?” A little ember of pride sparks in her chest. Her voice barely shook._

_He sets the bottle on the counter. “Of course, I do.”_

_Leaving the wine behind, he rounds the island and loops his thumbs in her belt loops. He tugs her closer so her breasts press against his chest. She leans back and puts her fists on his shoulders._

_“I need to talk to you.”_

_“This again?” He sighs._

_The tip of his nose tickles the soft spot on her throat. She arches her neck away._

_“Tam-”_

_His hands squeeze her hips and she gasps. He squeezes harder and kisses her. It’s not the same because she doesn’t kiss back and he doesn’t notice._

_She pulls away, but he follows her, his tongue begging for entry._

_“Stop-”_

_He slips in his tongue and tries to tangle with hers. She bites down._

_Tamlin jumps back, hand on his mouth and swearing._

_“What the hell?”_

_“I told you to stop.”_

_He slaps his hand on the counter, and she jumps. “You’ve been saying no for months, Feyre! What the hell happened?”_

_“You know what happened.”_

_“It’s been months. Nothing even happened.”_

_She gawks at him. “How can you even say that? Everything happened! People died, Tamlin! Lucien almost died! I did!”_

_Tamlin grabs the wine and digs out the bottle opener without a word._

_Rage flows through her veins. “No. We’re talking about this. I need to.”_

_The cork pops out of the bottle like a gunshot in the silence._

_“Tamlin, please.”_

_The bored look in his eyes cracks something in her she didn’t know she had left._

_“You’re right,” Feyre says, her voice shaking now, “It has been months.”_

_The proposal had seemed so fake after everything that happened just a few weeks before. When she woke up in the hospital the doctor had told her her heart had stopped on the operating table twice and that she’d be lucky if she didn’t have permanent paralysis in at least one limb due to broken vertebrae._

_She drops the ring on the counter. It clatters for a moment before settling on the marble._

_There’s a chink as the decanter’s glass hits the counter. Tamlin’s knuckles are white around the neck of the bottle. He lifts his eyes from the ring to her a moment before the wine shatters against the wall._

_Feyre stands frozen as maroon drips behind her. She had felt the drops hit her neck as it exploded next to her head. Glass sparkles on the floor around her feet like the diamonds he once showed her in a necklace of his mother’s he wanted her to wear. She told him it was too expensive and fancy for her, but he insisted it was perfect._

_“Tam-”_

_“You haven’t been yourself for months. I come home to celebrate, and I come home to this?” He rounds the counter to her. She steps back, a distant part of her thankful for her boots. “Why do you constantly do this?”_

To me, _she thinks, ‘Why do you do this_ to me? _’_

_Her words shake as much as her hands. “I’m going to leave. Don’t follow me.”_

_She steps backwards but he grabs her wrist. She whimpers at his grip. “Let me go.”_

_“No,” he growls. He drags her out of the kitchen. Feyre digs her fingers beneath his but they don’t let go. Blood seeps under his nails. He was always so much stronger than her, bigger._

_Feyre shoves her foot between his but only trips herself. He rips her up and she screams at the pain in her shoulder._

_“Tamlin! Let me go!”_

_He drags her down the hall and she stumbles after him trying to get to her feet. “Stop!”_

_He yanks her in front of him when he does. He holds her close to his chest and pulls the guestroom door open. He pushes her in and she nearly falls on her knees._

_She spins around._

_Tamlin heaves in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with the swirling storm in his eyes._

_“Just,” he pants, “just stay here.”_

_And he shuts the door with a click._

_Something scrapes outside the door. She dives for the knob and twists it, but it doesn’t budge._

_Her fingers fumble with the lock but the knob still doesn’t turn._

_She slaps a hand on the wood, “Tamlin! Let me out!”_

_He doesn’t answer. Feyre shoves her shoulder against the door. Something heavy shifts on the other side._

_“Tamlin!”_

_She jiggles the handle and shoves the door again to no avail._

_“Tamlin, please!_

_Panic starts to claw its way up her throat. She forces it down before it reaches her head._

_The big glass window looks down on the little garden behind the house. She pushes her hair out of her face. The foundation of the house was tall, but she was willing to risk the jump._

_She has to force the latch open because of the paint but she nearly cries with relief when it does. But when she pushes up, it doesn’t budge. Paint cracks in the few places the pane moves but doesn’t open._

_“Come on,” she mutters, biting her lip._

_She moves back to the door and kicks it. “Tamlin!”_

_Feyre shouts for him even when the panic starts creeping up and her eyes start to burn._

_“Tamlin, please!”_

_“Let me out!”_

_“Tamlin!”_

_She folds herself against the door after her voice grows hoarse. Pressing her eyes into her knees, she tries to keep the tears back. She swallows around the rock threatening to choke her._

_It takes a long time for her to stand, her entire body shaking at the panic firing through it. She recognizes it, but she can’t control it._

_She knows there’s a bag in the closet some guest left behind. Shoving a thin blanket and some ivory soap she finds in the bathroom drawer in the bag. She sets it on the bed and leans her head against the door again._

_She wasn’t one to pray. No one in her family was, and Tamlin never indicated he did, but she sends a short prayer to the Mother. Once she had heard it didn’t matter the words, but the feelings behind them that mattered._

_Her hands still shake as she pushes herself away from the white wood. She swings the bag over her shoulder and grabs the bedside lamp._

_She had always thought it was ugly._

_The window cracks before breaking under the lamp’s base. Glass shards stick out from the frame, but she knocks them out with the light. With one leg straddling out the window, she looks at the door one more time, unsure if she wants it to open or not._

_Her landing sends waves of pain up her legs. She doubles over waiting for the pains to pass before straightening up. The garden walls were tall. Tamlin valued his privacy and she did once too, but now the price for it cost her to be trapped inside._

_She rests her boot on the wall and jumps to the ledge. Her fingers scrape against the brick as she falls back down trying not to hold her shoulder._

_The raw ache in her palms match the crescent cuts along her wrist._

_One, two, three-_

_She manages to grab the ledge and scrabbles to swing her leg up. When she does, she lays on her stomach to catch her breath. She closes her eyes._

She opens her to Mor’s guestroom. Not white and not empty or locked. She’s curled up under the heavy covers. It hadn’t taken long for her to fall asleep after using up all Mor’s hot water. She can still smell the apple shampoo she used last night to scrub off the scent of the rose bush she fell into on the other side of the garden wall.

If she ever saw another rose again, it’d be too soon.

After hearing nothing but the building settling, Feyre reluctantly pushes the blankets off. Mor had given her soft pajama bottoms and a t-shirt of a bar she had never heard of before, but its worn and cozy. She had absolutely no qualms about giving Mor her other clothes to wash during the night either.

The clock above the television reads one o’clock. She had never slept so late in her life even after she started sleeping past dawn.

There’s a note on the counter:

_Eat whatever you want. I’ll be back around 5._

The rest Feyre can’t read, but there’s an internet password squiggled on the bottom. She hopes Mor doesn’t try to text her; she had left her phone behind.

She hadn’t looked around the apartment before heading to bed the night before, but she doesn’t know how she missed the tall mahogany bookshelves lining the living room. They’re filled with books, movies, and photos along with other knickknacks and candles. Its cluttered and lived in and so unlike the house.

In almost every photo there’s Rhys and two other men who she thinks is Cassian and Azriel. Rhys had said they were his adopted brothers but with their coloring and matching smirks, they could be related by blood.

Others have Mor and some other women in selfies from beaches and ski slopes then there are other places she assumes were taken on the continent or another beautiful place.

One picture framed in silver keeps pulling her back. It’s one of the few with all five from the restaurant. By the dusting of white in their hair, it is winter. They’re all wearing beaming smiles. Mor is tucked under one of Rhys’s arms and one of the other men under the other. She wonders if the snow is blinding them as all their eyes look slightly watery but it’s something else that draws her eye.

Rhys is wearing the same white button up and blazer he wore when she saw him for the first and last time. When she brushed him off after spotting Lucien already holding her luggage at the carousal he had been more rumpled. She had spotted him sleeping on the plane in his first-class seat with his eye mask and headphones. He had twitched in his sleep but otherwise was a perfect model to sketch again.

She had hidden that sketchbook in the attic. Only retrieving it when Tamlin was gone was when she tried to capture Rhys again. She wonders if Tamlin will ever find it in her suitcase, what he’ll think.

Setting the frame back down, she sits on the purple couch, her arms wrapped around her torso.

Twenty-four hours beforehand she had withdrawn some money from Tamlin’s account and tucked it in the suitcase with the rest of her belonging, mostly the clothes she liked the most and some sketchbooks including the one with the drawings of Rhys.

Now, she had nothing. She didn’t even know where Mor had washed her clothes.

Tears start to burn her eyes as reality crashes down around her. She couldn’t even go back to Tamlin and apologize, not now. Maybe she could call Elain when Mor got back. They could wire her some money or get her a way back to Mortland. Maybe Tamlin hadn’t taken away their money yet.

She runs a hand through her hair. Mother, she didn’t even have a comb.

Feyre breath hitches at the thought and then her nose starts to run. That’s how Mor finds her half an hour later.

The other woman doesn’t say a word when she unlocks the door and finds Feyre sobbing on her couch. Mor brings her a box of tissues and gently rubs her shoulder as Feyre tries to pull the sobs back, but every time she thinks she’s done, a fresh round of tears spill over.

“I’m so sorry.”

Mor shakes her head, “Don’t worry about it.”

“No,” Feyre sniffs, wiping her nose, “Really. I just appeared on your doorstep and stayed the night. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. My home is always open. Plus,” she cracks a smile, “Rhys was the one who brought you here.”

“I was the one who agreed to come.”

Mor waves her hand. “I’d rather you be here than at the train station. Rhys told me where he ran into you,” she explains at Feyre’s questioning look.

She takes the tissue Mor offers her. “Thank you. For more than the tissue, I mean.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Az gave me half a day because Cassian bribed him too after I agreed to ask you to game night.”

“What?”

Mor winces. “I told him it wasn’t a good idea. Rhys nearly stomped his toes.”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because game night scares _us_ sometimes and were the only ones playing.”

Feyre’s brows furrow, “Why does Cassian want me to come?”

“Because,” Mor sighs, “He was impressed you had cake for supper.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Feyre bites her lip, considering. Although she still feels guilty for arriving at Mor’s unexpectedly, she wasn’t in the streets or maybe back at Tamlin’s by one way or another and she has Rhys to thank for that.

“Okay,” she says.

Mor blinks at her.

“What?”

“Let’s go to game night.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Feyre says determinedly. She wasn’t going to let Tamlin keep her holed up.

Mor closes her eyes, “Ugh, Cassian’s going to be so happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	6. Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre says sorry a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Uno or the ACOTAR series.
> 
> Also totally didn't put 'slow burn' in the tags...

Mor stops her outside of a large townhouse. Its shutters are open, letting the lights inside begin to pierce the hedges below the windows. 

"Okay," Mor says, pulling her arm out of Feyre's, "Remember what I told you?"

Feyre nods, swallowing hard. She'd been confident about beating Tamlin in her mind, but now a few hours later she had a stomachache. 

"I don't have to play anything, and if anyone wins beside Azriel, they're cheating."

"Exactly." Feyre lets the other woman lead her up the stairs and through the door. The big door opens to a foyer with stairs and polished wood. As Mor leads her down the hall, Feyre catches glimpses of rooms with the same dark wood floors and pictures. Mor had hers in tiny frames on shelves but Rhys' hang on the walls, large and obtrusive. 

The three men, Mor, and Amren are in nearly every picture, either smiling or smirking at the camera. The same one who caught her eye at Mor's hangs by Rhys' living room. 

There are less couches, but they look just as comfortable as Mor's and had less pillows. 

She spots Rhys first. He sits in an armchair near the fireplace in a white t-shirt and dark jeans looking unfairly handsome with the firelight behind him. He's listening to the man on his right, Cassian based on Mor's descriptions. She recognizes him from the restaurant. Azriel shuffles a deck of cards. The cards flutter between his hands in a trick move that no one else seems to notice but her. 

The thought of everyone here being unfairly good-looking sneaks through her anxiety. 

"Feyre?" She turns at Rhys' voice. His eyes slightly widen, his gaze flicking between her and Mor. He doesn't notice Cassian and Azriel's identical grins directed at him. 

She gives him a little wave and cringes immediately afterwards as the men's grins only widen though she's not sure why. 

Mor pushes passed her gently and drops onto the couch next to Cassian, swinging her feet onto the large coffee table, "I thought she'd like game night."

Rhys stands up and starts walking toward the door then stops suddenly. He pales a little and swallows hard. Feyre doesn't think she could ever imagine the look on his face if she hadn't seen it. It doesn't look anything like the man that smirked at her across the airport aisle or picked her up in the rain. 

"Mor can you help me bring the food in?"

"Why?"

"Please," Rhys grits out. When Mor stands he practically drags her out of the room, but Feyre shoves that thought far, far away and perches on the end of the couch with Azriel. The man is tall, probably just as tall or taller than Rhys, but his hair is just as dark. Though his shoulders are straight, Feyre still thinks somehow, he is slouching even as he flips a card back into the deck. 

"So, you're Feyre," Cassian draws out, spreading his arms across the back of his sofa. He was wider than both other men but the smirk on his face reminds her of a twelve-year-old. 

She nods wearily and sits further back. Azriel starts shuffling the cards again. Feyre watches the edges of the cards blur as he passes them from one hand to another. 

"Where did you learn how to do that?" she asks. 

The cards falter and spew across the table. Azriel quickly pushes them back into a pile. 

Cassian answers for him. "Az used to work at a casino," he taps his temple, "got fired for helping me count cards."

Azriel snorts. "Only part of that is true."

"Oh, but Feyre will never know what part," Cassian winks. 

Faint voices reach them from another part of the house too far away for Feyre to make out. She looks around the room and at the flickering flames. Sagging bookshelves filled with clutter and rows of books stand on either side. 

She wonders vaguely if Rhys had read them all, and how long it would take her to finish one chapter. 

Looking away, she catches Cassian looking her up and down. She narrows her eyes back him and does the same. His sweatshirt sleeves are rolled up, exposing his dark forearms. He cocks a brow at her. 

Azriel pulls out a different deck of cards from beneath the table as Rhys and Mor place big, colorful bowls filled with popcorn and candy along the floor. Mor drops next to Feyre with her own bowl. 

"No," Rhys says suddenly glaring at Azriel.  "Were not subjecting her to that."

Feyre takes a closer look at the cards in his hands and recognizes the colors of Uno, but the deck is much thicker than she's ever seen. 

"I've played Uno before."

"You haven't played Uno with us before."

"I'm sure I can handle it," she snaps. 

Rhys' eyes meet hers. She knows it wasn't fair of her, but his tone reminded her of Tamlin when he scoffed at her music playlist. 

"Fine," he says. He leaves the room again, either to get more food or to stew. Azriel's head moves from her to Cassian and Mor glares at Rhys' back. 

When he comes back he sits across from Feyre on the overstuffed armchair that couldn't have been sat in more than a dozen times. 

Without a word Azriel starts sliding cards to each of them until Feyre has twice the usual number. It makes her feel like she's already losing. 

"Since Feyre is our guest and victim, she should go first." Mor says, flipping over a card from the leftovers. 

Feyre puts down a blue five followed by Mor's plus four. 

"Fuck you," Cassian says. 

Mor just smiles sweetly. "Green."

It continues like that for several rounds around the table. Azriel's hand quickly disappears and when he hits her with his third plus two in a row, she's wondering if he's the one cheating. 

The persistent ache in her stomach slowly diminishes as the game goes on, the others' bantering and promises of revenge growing louder and more threatening once Rhys brings out the alcohol. 

She's sure none of the threats are followed through simply because Cassian's hand seems to grow with each of his turns and Azriel can't hit him with anything except the anger he induced in Rhys, and Mor through Feyre. 

When Feyre reverses the order and Rhys adds another plus four onto Azriel's, the only clue Cassian moves is the pillow flying toward Rhys' face and the bottle of white wine shattering on the floor. 

The glass explodes against the wood and Rhys glares at Cassian, who looks sheepish. 

"That was expensive."

"So is the therapy I'm going to be in after this game."

"Rhys-" Mor starts. 

He glances at her and does a double take at the sudden paleness taking over Feyre's face. 

Scattering cards, he walks across the table and sits on the edge, wedging his knees between Feyre's. He can barely hear her breath catch. 

"Hey," he says quietly, trying to force her eyes from the remains of the bottle to his own. He can feel the others' watching them, but he doesn't really care.  

His chest clenches at her sudden smallness, so different than when she grinned as she switched colors on Mor. 

"Hey," he says again, wishing he could touch and turn her to meet his eyes, but the slightly wild look in her blue-grey eyes says that would be a very bad idea. 

Rhys repeats the word until she does look at him, still breathing quickly. The distance in her eyes is familiar. 

"It was just an accident," he mutters. The urge from the train platform to push her hair out of her face. He grips his knees instead, focusing on calling her back with his voice instead. 

Behind him he can hear one of his friends picking up the glass and another quietly saying something about a towel. The thought that he was right to protest her presence tonight creeps into his head. 

Her hands capture his eye. The ridiculous ring is gone but her fingers trace circles and lines on her pants. 

"Could one of you grab some paper and a pencil?"

Mor places them in his hands along with a book from the shelf which he sets gently on Feyre's thighs. She looks at him questioningly. 

He hands her the pen and positions the paper. She takes them with trembling fingers that make him fight his instinct to steady them. 

"I won't look," he promises, craning his neck to look at the ceiling he decides needs cleaning. 

His brothers and cousin are quiet. The light sound of lead across paper reaches his ears, and as tempting as it is to look down, he doesn't. 

Feyre doesn't lift her hand from the paper. She glances up to see Rhys studying the ceiling fan before drawing more whorls and lines on the paper. 

Her hand takes over, overlaying circles and lines as her heart starts to slow from the race it's still running. 

She didn't care if Rhys and the others looked at the paper, but she appreciates their respect of her privacy just the same. 

With another glance at the man in front of her, she wonders how he knew this is what she needed. She flips the page to the blank side and continues her messy patterns as Azriel wipes up the spilled wine. 

As she fills the paper with grey, heat climbs her up her neck and cheeks. She sets down the pencils and Rhys meets her eyes. 

His blue eyes bore into hers with a silence question. She nods. His long fingers rotate the paper as he studies it with the same intensity he did the ceiling. 

"I'm sorry," she whispers. 

"Don't be," he says. Mor hands her a glass of water she takes gratefully. 

She takes a sip and notices Azriel forcing a worn rubber band around the deck of cards. 

"Wait," He pauses in stretching the band. "Keep playing. I want to watch."

Azriel flicker his eyes to Rhys who keeps his eyes on her. "Are you sure," he asks.  

She nods. "I want to see Cass lose."

A ghost of a smile passed on Rhys' lips as Azriel starts to reshuffle the cards to Cassian's chagrin. Mor cackles. 

"That's the spirit."

Rhys ends up sitting out but remains near Feyre next to Azriel. Watching the trio swear and throw cards angrily into the pile was better than most shows Feyre used to watch. 

Throughout the new game, she can feel Rhys cast looks at her that she determinedly ignores. He's seen her crying on the train platform and panic at some spilled wine. She wasn't interested in seeing the judgement in his perfect face.  

She wonders who picked up the glass at the house, who wiped down the walls. If someone even bothered. Perhaps Alis had when she returned. 

Before she and Mor had left her apartment, Mor had turned on the local news, and too her great relief and some sorrow Tamlin hadn't reported her missing or anything. Maybe he didn't care. 

She finishes her water, standing up and steps over Mor's legs to get to the hall and the kitchen. As the glass fills, she looks at the pictures on the refrigerator. 

Some she recognizes from Mor’s, but some have a little girl and an older woman gardening and at parties. In one school photo, the girl has sparkly pink braces. 

"My sister and my mom." 

Feyre nearly breaks the second glass tonight before spinning on Rhys. He leans against the doorway, his hands fisted in his tight jeans. 

“She's cute," she gets out, pulling the glass away from the door. 

 Rhys smiles sadly. He grabs a cup from the cabinet and hands it to her. Feyre sets her drink on the counter. 

The cup is crude. The handle squeezes her hand and the paint spelling out Rhys' name is shaky, and some lines are blotted with paint drops. The other side has a purple bat with big black eyes and even bigger fangs. 

"Did she make this?"

"Fourth grade. When I was in tenth."

Feyre gives it back. While he puts it up high, she looks over the refrigerator photos again. 

"You don't have any more pictures of her."

She knows she's said something awful when his face closes. A shield comes over his eyes, coloring them even darker. 

"I'm sorry," she scrambles, "you don't have to answer that."

His face softens. "No, it's okay. You didn't know." She watches his Adam's bob rather than meet his eyes. "She and Mom died when I was sixteen. Drunk driver."

"I'm so sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't make it better. I'm sorry for asking."

"Don't be sorry for asking questions," he says quietly. He smiles but it's not happy. It's rueful. "The driver was someone I went to school with. Only got a DUI and a misdemeanor because of his daddy's money."

Feyre tries to find something to say. Something to comfort him but all that comes to mind are hopes the kid didn't forget killing a sister and a mother in price of a good time. 

She reaches out tentatively and wraps her fingers around Rhys' wrist because the rest is still in his pocket. 

"I'm truly sorry, Rhys." It's not enough for the injustice against his family. "Do you want me to hunt him down and kill him?"

Rhys lets out a surprised laugh. 

"I'm serious," she insists, anger burning in her belly. 

"I know you are. And I appreciate that, I really do. I'm still working on my revenge. I did break his nose and jaw in the cafeteria though."

"That's not enough."

Rhys looks down at his socked feet. "No, it's not."

Feyre searches for words, but she's never been good at them, so instead she tugs his hand out of his pocket and he lets her. Her mother had died when she was eleven, but they weren't close, not like Rhys was to his and his sister. She blinks at the burning in her eyes. His eyes so comforting an hour ago, now filled with a sorrow she can't see the bottom of. She squeezes his fingers tightly. 

And he squeezes back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos, and taking the time to read!


	7. In the Middle of the Night

Feyre squeezes back once more before pulling her hand out of his and grabbing her water again. The cool glass offsets the warmth tingling in her fingers. 

She can feel his eyes following her back to the living room but despite everything, it's not a bad feeling. 

Azriel forces the rubber band over the cards again for good this time. Feyre can't not notice how pale his fingers are, and how she can clearly see the tendons on the back of his broad hands stick out as he stretches the band. They were not artist hands. 

Cassian reaches under his side of the table and pulls out Monopoly with a glint in his eyes. Even Feyre groans a little. 

When everyone reaches into their back pockets, Feyre tilts her head at Rhys. 

"We play with real money. There's a conversion and everything. I'll tell you later."

"Don't. I never want to play," she says. 

He just smirks. 

 

***

 

The night lasts long after midnight. Mor had warned her it might but she hadn't believed her. 

Azriel lays sleepily on his couch, his feet hanging over the arm while Rhys sips his drink. Sometime during the games, the beer bottles morphed into beer cans. 

Feyre's own eyes droop as they watch Cassian and Mor in a game of chess. 

Cassian's chin rests on folded hands, dark circles beneath his eyes and a wicked grin as Mor stares at the pieces with drunken intensity. 

Feyre shifts her heavy head toward Rhys, "How are you still drinking?"

"It's a talent, Feyre darling."

"He's an alcoholic," Az mutters.

"I believe it," Cassian adds, still watching Mor try to work through her options. 

Rhys rolls his eyes and leans toward her, “Don’t let them fool you, they’re just jealous.”

“Of course.”

His eyes are intense, looking for any signs of overreaction like earlier with the wine. She supposes it could be worse; he could be hovering, but the only times she noticed him watching her was when she spoke.

“I’m fine,” she says, answering his silence question.

Rhys searches her face before nodding at whatever he sees. He turns back to the chess game, Cassian’s move now, but she keeps him in the corner of her eye. He chuckles at something Azriel says.

The man she met at the airport was not the one beside her. Yes, he was Rhys and he looked healthier than back into December. Those were obvious things, but there was still something profoundly different to her, which was stupid since, in total, they’ve only been in each other’s presence less than forty-eight hours. If that.

Of course, she’s known Tamlin for years, and people change. She knew that.

Mor rests her head on her outstretched arms, Cassian taking over her concentrated expression. Almost immediately, light snores penetrate the quiet.

“I win,” Cassian mumbles. He pushes Mor’s king down as Rhys stands. He pulls the throw blanket off the armchair and tosses it over Az who mumbles. He smirks before nudging Mor’s shoulder.

Feyre watches him get his family ready for bed, wondering if she should just grab Mor’s key before he asks her to leave himself. As he pushes Mor to the hallway, she pushes the bottles and cans to the center of the coffee table before stacking the empty popcorn bowls and taking them to the sink.

Azriel’s dark eyes are open when she walks back in. She pauses.

“Rhys might just keep you around because you pick-up without death threats,” he says.

Heat rises in her cheeks and she tries to will it back down and doesn’t answer though she can feel his eyes on her when she picks up a Monopoly card from under the table.

“Do you know where Mor’s keys are?”

“Probably in her bag, why?” Rhys asks, walking through the doorway.

Feyre fidgets with her fingers. “So, I can go back to her apartment.”

Rhys pauses, game boxes balanced in his arms, “You can stay here. Mother knows there’s enough room.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” she starts.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Feyre,” he says, moving to put the games in a cupboard, “You were invited, and everyone stays over after game night.”

She looks away as his jeans expose a strip of his tanned skin while he kneels. She thinks of how fast everyone just fell asleep with ease, Az on the sofa and Mor on the table, and Rhys’ casual acceptance of it all. She thinks how he gave her paper and pen without hesitating.

“Are you sure?” She asks quietly.

He gives her a small smile, “Come on.”

The second floor has the same dark wood as the first, and just as many pictures. Rhys shows her the bathroom and a spare toothbrush before showing her her room.

Only a bed and matching side table occupy the room, but it is welcoming all the same with the blue quilt and fluffy pillows.

“Thank you, Rhys.”

He shows her that small smile again. “You’re welcome, Feyre.”

 

***

 

Feyre doesn’t know what in her dream wakes her up, but it leaves her shaking.

She rubs the sleep out of her eyes before stumbling to Rhys’ bathroom and splashing water on her face, letting it drip into her hair before she pulls it back.

Since she doubts someone like Rhys would have bad lighting, she cringes at the reflection in the mirror. The dark bruises beneath her eyes look tattooed there. She pulls back the sleeve of her shirt, looking at the rusty crescent moons around her wrist. Some dried blood flakes off into the sink as she rubs her thumb over the cuts.

The faucet pushes the blood down the white porcelain and Feyre dries her hands. She’s heading back to the bedroom when she hears a noise downstairs.

A drawer slides shut, and she makes her way down the hall and the stairs. Peeking around the doorway, Feyre watches Rhys pull a carton out of the microwave before it can beep.

She steps farther in the kitchen, “Did you just microwave ice cream?”

Rhys lets out a breathy laugh, “Don’t sound so scandalized.”

“I’m not, I just never saw anyone do that before.”

“Stop hanging around with company that like to bend their spoons.”

He opens the drawer again and hands her her own spoon and then holds out the carton. She can practically taste the mint already. She scoops her spoon in and takes a bite of the mint chocolate. It chills her teeth but Rhys smiles at her and digs his own spoon in.

After a few spoonfuls, Feyre asks, “What are you doing up?”

Rhys swallows. “Nightmare.”

Feyre pauses in taking another scoop, “I need to stop asking you questions.”

Half of his mouth goes up, “Don’t. So why are you up joining me for an early breakfast?”

 “A dream, but I don’t remember what it was about.”

Silence falls between them and it’s not uncomfortable. The only sound is the ice maker and the tiny clink of spoons against teeth.

She doesn’t know what prompts it, but she says thanks.

“I feel like whenever I see you, you’re eating sweets, so I don’t know what you’re thanking me for unless its cavities.”

Her lips twitch. “Thank you for letting me stay and for giving me the paper last night. I needed it.”

There isn’t a smile on his face, but there’s one in his eyes. “Can I ask you a question, Feyre? Feel free not to answer.”

Feyre sets down the spoon carefully. His eyes are sincere, unsure, but she’s not sure she trusts them to not ask why she was waiting for a train or why she didn’t have more than one pair of clothes that were her own or why she nearly cried over spilled wine.

“Okay,” she says, cautiously.

“What happened to your ring?”

She freezes, unprepared for that and unable to answer. Either Tamlin had put in a jewelry box for someone else or he melted it down and sold the emerald or planned to. Visiting her sisters, she had hidden it in a plastic baggie and then she left it on the counter to its unknown fate. Rhys must have seen it at the restaurant when she was expecting Tamlin.

“Like I said, you don’t have to answer. I was just curious.”

Rhys goes back into the carton, scrapping the sides. Feyre stares at the counter. He had answered her questions, even though they obviously caused him pain. It was only fair she dug out a part of herself too.

“I left it behind,” she says, “at my ex-fiancé’s house. That’s why I was at the station.” She rubs her wrist under the island counter. “It didn’t end well.”

She looks up to meet Rhys’ eyes, full of understanding. “I’m sorry.”

Feyre almost laughs. “We say that a lot for people who barely know each other, but yeah. I haven’t loved him for a long time. It’s okay. I mean, it isn’t, but…”

She drops the rest of the sentence, looking back down at the counter. Rhys moves around the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. When he sits back down across from her, he holds out another carton of ice cream, and this time she does laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a cold and in a writing slump so this chapter is like 500 words shorter than usual, but its more of a filler if anything. I promise more Rhys and Feyre interactions from now on, and normal length chapters.


	8. Gravity

Part of her hopes it was a dream, but she knows it wasn’t. She did, consciously, eat ice cream for breakfast with Rhys.

Feyre buries her face in Mor’s pillow. She had told him about Tamlin, or at least inferred that they had not ended well. Thank the Mother he hadn’t asked any more questions.

She and Mor had left after the latter had woken up and declared she needed to change immediately and shower. They had said a quick goodbye before hurrying out the door because Mor had errands to run. How she had the energy, Feyre didn’t know.

So, she had been left alone in the apartment again. After eating an apple and playing her own game of matching Mor’s pictures with Rhys’, she took a nap.

Now she pulls the covers over her head and breathes in the warm air.

She’d left, and now she doesn’t know what to do.

Feyre chews her lip, feeling the air turn wet with her breath. She had been so, so stupid. She doesn’t have any money; what she had planned to take was what Tamlin had given her. If she didn’t do something soon, she was going to have to borrow underwear from Mor and, sadly, that was least of her worries.

When it starts hurting to breathe, she pushes the blanket away. As she’s going under, she hears the knock.

She almost lets it go but it persists, and when she peeks through the peephole, Feyre nearly falls.

Impossible. There’s no possible way.

Holding a hand to her chest to stop her heart from its rapid beat, she peeps again at Amarantha.

She exams her black nails, her hair as vibrant as before against her pale skin. In her tight black suit, she looks ready to kill.

Feyre steps back quietly, thanking the Mother she was took Mor’s socks when she offered. Her knees give up as soon as her back touches the wall.

Her shirt rides up as it catches in the wall, but she doesn’t care how it exposes her because Amarantha is  _here_ ,meters away, healthy and  _here._

Feyre holds her breath. It fights to escape but if it does she’ll be found. The door shakes with another knock.

“Mor, darling,” she says silkily, “open the door. I just want to talk.”

Feyre covers her mouth with both her hands, trying not to breathe.

_Please, please, please, please-_

Another knock. She squeezes her eyes shut.

_Leave, please just leave..._

“Fine, but I’ll be back. Maybe I’ll bring Eris next time.”

Heels click on the tile floor in the hall. She doesn’t open her eyes even after they fade.

Sticky tears cling to her face as she gasps into her hands. She doesn’t know how long she sits there but her stomach hurts from the choked gasps when there’s another knock.

“Feyre? Are you here?”

Rhys’ voice shatters something in her and a sob escapes. It all hits her like a train. Amarantha was on the other side of the door and she had no idea Feyre was there. What would she have done if she’d known?

Hands touch her shoulders and she pulls away, pushing herself farther against the wall. She knows it’s Rhys, she knows that, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing does except that Amarantha was  _right there._

"Feyre, what happened?”

She nearly laughs. What hadn’t happened?

“She broke my neck and I died. Lucien nearly died. Two other people died because of what I did and Tamlin was fucking fine because of course,  _of course_ , he was. He’s always  _fucking fin_ e because he ignores everything if he doesn’t like it, and if he doesn’t ignore it, then it’s someone else’s fault!” Feyre screams at Rhys. She knows it’s not fair to him, but the words fall like bombs. “You’d think a grown fucking adult would take some goddamn responsibility for what he did, and he didn’t, no, because how could he ever do something wrong. He’s always justified. It doesn’t fucking matter what happens to other people unless it affects him and then he throws fits if they bring it up because he’s a  _fucking_  child about every  _fucking_  thing!”

Her eyes burn but she meets Rhys’ wide ones, daring him to say the wrong thing because she is ready to leave, to explode again at the slightest spark.

Instead he sits back against the door, wrapping his arms around his knees. He tilts his head back and swallows hard. “You know Tamlin?”

Feyre lets out a wet laugh. She wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand, “Know him? No, not anymore, but I was engaged to him.”

He tilts his chin down at her. “You were engaged to Tamlin? Tamlin  _Rose_?”

“Unfortunately,” Feyre says, her heart twisting at the thoughts passing behind his dark eyes, “don’t remind me.”

He’s still studying her, but she refuses to look away first. “You were the girl involved in that hostage situation last year.”

Feyre swallows but stays quiet.

“You helped get me home,” he continues, quieter.

“What?”

“I was on the continent for five years because of her-”

“She was here.”

“What?”

“Amarantha was here. Before you came,” she says, shakily, watching Rhys pale, “she wanted Mor. She said she’d come back again with someone named Eris-”

Rhys stands. “We have to go, now,” he says coldly, but not at her.

Feyre nods, testing her knees before she gets back to her room. She changes into her old clothes from the house and comes back to Rhys talking on his phone. He hangs up when he sees her.

“Where’s your bag?”

“There’s nothing in it.”

Rhys lips thin but he nods without argument. His eyes are years away, yet he reaches out a hand tentatively.

Feyre stares at it for a moment; it’s covered in callouses but friendly, like sharing ice cream after nightmares and an umbrella in the rain.

It’s warm and as he laces his fingers between hers, he locks Mor’s door behind them.

 

 

***

 

“Are you fucking serious? She was at  _my house_?”

Rhys hadn’t taken her back to his townhouse. She didn’t even know what this place technically was, but it’s up high and you needed a special keycard to access the floor and their wine glasses had an overlapping H and W etched faintly into the glass.

The others had arrived minutes after Rhys had poured the drink she had yet to try. Instead she was watching the moisture gather on the glass.

Mor was angry that Amarantha knew where she lived. Amren had immediately stalked into another room, her phone already pressed against her ear. Cassian was stewing, Azriel was trying to burn a hole in the floor with his stare, and Rhys had reclaimed her hand.

He was silently rubbing circles on it almost absently, his eyes on the floor as well. Feyre didn’t mind. It felt nice, but she didn’t know if the comfort was for her or himself.

There was a rock resting in her throat otherwise she would be asking the questions piling over themselves in her head. How were they involved with Amarantha? What did Rhys mean that she helped get him home?

She tried to settle on one thought but one just as she got in her grasps it either was replaced with another or hidden behind the fear that Amarantha was healthy once again.

Those few days were a blur, except for the last few hours. Frozen at the base of the stairs, she had watched Tamlin attack Amarantha in a rage, slicing her neck with a shard of glass.

There had been so much blood that night, Feyre didn’t know where hers ended and theirs began.

Amren flings the door back open, pocketing her phone and crossing her arms. Feyre hadn’t seen her since the restaurant and didn’t remember her being so small, but her eyes held a fire that was twice as big as any of them.

“We’re going to stay here tonight. All of us,” she says, her eyes settling on Feyre for only a moment.  

“We need clothes, groceries-”

“I’ll get them.” Her words are hard.

Rhys holds her gaze but breaks it almost instantly with a quiet ‘thank you.’

Amren leaves without another word. The tension stays behind with the rest of them, pressing farther down on the stone in her throat like gravity.

She squeezes Rhys’ hand once before extracting it and grabbing her wine, thankful for the cool water against her skin. She raises it with a shaky hand and takes a sip, gathering her courage.

“How?”

Rhys looks up, his dark eyes clouded and pained, but she can’t take it back. She needs to know how they’re tied together.

“Hybern. She worked with Hybern, the company, and they were getting pissed that we weren’t giving up Velaris’ hold on the Rainbow and other places. We import from various peoples on the continent and they wanted to build on their lands. I was visiting there on a trip when a group attacked the village I was in.”

Rhys swallows and continues. “There were no real signs that they were paid by Hybern, but they made comments that made me suspicious and then she came one day. She visited where they were keeping me and kept coming back. I was there for five years.

“Until once she was pissed off and she left. She was gone a few weeks and the others in the camp were getting antsy and then one day, everyone was gone. I thought it was a trick, but I left anyway. I went to the nearest village after I gathered my whereabouts. I had to give information about the group that took me and everything. It took until December that I got to Mortland and was planning on flying here until the snowstorm cancelled the flights.”

And then he met her, and he made her laugh even though she was going back to an empty house. After all that he was helping for. For Mother’s sake, he tucked that stupid granola bar back into her bag. She had found it after getting back to the house and was hurt he didn’t want to take anything from her when he gave her a brief relief.

He leaves so many words unsaid, but she’s heard enough to guess he was in some type of war camp or something similar, probably hungry and desperate, and he still gave her the whole granola bar. Sure, he had months to readjusts but Feyre knew months weren’t long enough. A year wasn’t.

_Five years_. No wonder why he and Mor had so many pictures. She wouldn’t be surprised if Cassian and Az did too.

An ache starts to build her chest. Maybe Amren could grab some and bring them here.

Feyre nods. Not ready to tell them what happened last summer. At least Rhys knew a part of it. She assumes the others do too. It was so public, everyone knew. If it was possible, she was still grateful for two things and one was that he managed to keep her name out of the press, whether it was selfish or not.

But Amarantha knew. And now so did the others. And Rhys.

She doubted even Tamlin knew; his mind had to be protecting him for him to be so unaffected. He had to be because no one could be alright after that bloody nightmare.

And now the cause of it was back.

 


	9. Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm soooo sorry. I am a sad, busy, poor college student in their senior year. Winter break is soon so I'll have more time to write. It'll take a chapter or two to get back into the flow of writing but I appreciate your comments and kudos and patience. I'm not abandoning any fics, its just taking more time than I want.

It seems ludicrous now that she thought it was all over.  
  
She looks around at their little circle; Amren gone to prepare what they need for a long stay, and wonders at how unfortunately connected they are.  
  
She wonders what they do now, wonders if she should tell them her side in everything. She hated being stuck in Mortland and then stuck in her own body and head, stuck in the house, and now stuck in the House of Winds. Stuck, stuck, stuck.  
  
But she had left Mortland and healed, broke away and out of the house, of Tamlin.  
  
Feyre takes in a deep breath and something settles in her chest. It feels like... acceptance. Acceptance that it will all end, that it is not forever. That this is not forever.  
  
She takes another sip of her wine, the glass shaky against her lips, “What do you need to know?”  
  
Silence greets her words. When she looks up, they’re all staring at her with expressions she can’t read.  
  
“I mean,” she starts, her shakiness making its way into her words, “What happened last summer wasn’t public, or at least not all of it. I can help; I want to. I just... I can’t tell you everything, not yet.”  
  
If it’s possible, Rhys’ eyes soften as she directs the last part at him. She couldn’t read all their expressions, but anyone could see he left out things in his story too.  
  
Mor’s nod drags her gaze from his but it’s Azriel who speaks.  
  
“Do you think Amarantha would go after Tamlin?”  
  
Feyre shakes her head. “No, not to hurt him anyway.”  
  
At first, she could understand why Amarantha was still drunk on Tamlin when she first started dating him. That all changed when she learned they never had their own relationship. Amarantha had wanted one and Tamlin had not and somehow it all spun out of control, but she couldn’t see her hurting Tamlin.  
  
Az mumbles something about twins before disappearing down the hallway and Cassian pours himself a drink, Mor following and sitting on a stool where she talks to him quietly.  
  
Feyre sets down her own glass and looks at Rhysand, who is studying the lush carpet with his hair falling over his furrowed brows.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says. She wonders if she’ll ever stop apologizing.  
  
It makes him look at her, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”  
  
“I could know something that could be useful, but I just can’t.”  
  
Rhys takes her hand, his own thick with callouses. Did he have those before? Or did he get them on the continent?  
  
“You get to choose what you do or don’t want to say. She came to Mor’s home. We’d have to deal with her whether you were here or not.”  
  
What she wants to say is caught in her throat. She wants it to come out, everything she knows about Amarantha but there isn’t any air to push the words passed her lips. Instead she shuts her eyes and nods.  
  
“What is this place?” She asks after a time, opening her eyes.  
  
“You could call it Velaris’ headquarters. This is where we work out contracts and such with the people on the Rainbow. We’re practically the lungs of Velaris if the Rainbow were the body of we’re talking about roles in keeping everything going.”  
  
“Lungs? Not the heart?”  
  
“The shop owners are the heart. They’re the ones who keep us going.”  
  
“You mean they both need each other to keep going. The heart needs the oxygen to pump and the lungs need the heart to breathe. Like a paintbrush needs a canvas and the canvas needs a brush.”  
  
She barely suppresses a wince. She shouldn’t have said anything. Tamlin hated it when she did that, elaborated on what he said.  
  
But Rhys nods and says, “I like that.” He gives her a shadow of that dazzling smile she first saw in December. It takes her breath. “Feyre, do you want to see something? I think you’ll like it.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  


***  
  


Rhys was wrong; she didn’t like it. She loves it.  
  
The city lights are tiny stars in an ocean of darkness. Car beams slide among them all and in the distance, she can see a ferry crossing a blanket of black. Even the airplane lights add something to it all.  
  
It’s not the same as seeing the lights when flying, but the sight still steals her breath all the same.   
  
“This is amazing,” she breaths.   
  
“I thought so too,” Rhys says from behind her. “They’re the closest thing to stars here.”  
  
The thought of light pollution dims her awe for only a moment. “Did you grow up where you could see them well?”  
  
He rests his forearms along the railing beside her and his hair tosses itself in the wind. He’s quiet for a moment, looking at the lights beyond them.   
  
“We grew up farther north, near the base of the mountains. We could see nearly all the constellations when it was a clear night. My mom let us stay up late on school nights to watch for shooting stars.”

“I grew up in Mortland,” Feyre confesses, “My father, sisters, and I lived in a tiny apartment near some woods. It wasn’t really in the city so some nights I’d go outside to escape Nesta and lay down in the grass and look at the stars over the trees. It helped me pretend I was somewhere else.”

She frowns at the memory and drags a finger down the railing. It’s cold for the season. “I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”

“Is it a good or bad memory?”

Traffic slows down below them, adding a cacophony of horns to the night. The reason she had gone outside to escape the suffocation of her sisters and her father. If there were happy memories in that complex, she couldn’t remember them.

But going out on a crisp evening to watch Venus creep over the treetops reminded her that the world was so much bigger than their one room apartment, bigger than Mortland.

“A little bit of both.”

Rhys doesn’t ask her to elaborate, and she’s thankful for that.

Only the sounds of the city dance between them for a time. How long, she doesn’t know, but the windy air soothes something in her head causing it to quiet too.

“Thank you.”

Rhys only turns to her with the question in his eyes.

“For everything,” she starts, holding his eyes, nearly black in the night. “I treated you badly at that restaurant, and I ignored you after we landed here. You didn’t deserve that, but you’ve been kind anyway.” She has more to thank him for including leading her to Mor’s, finding her at the train station, but her voice gets tight.

“You haven’t done anything to not deserve it, Feyre.”

 _Only if you knew_ , she thinks, _you’d shove me off this roof._

 

***

 

They leave the roof eventually. Mor and Cassian are gone, and their glasses are in the bar’s sink.  Rhys is surprised they actually cleaned up for themselves once when they knew no janitors were coming in to do it for them. He thought they’d leave it for him to deal with.

He didn’t know why he decided to show Feyre the city lights. Whenever he had brought Mor or his brothers up, they had appreciated it but not to the extent he saw in Feyre’s eyes. At one point he swore she was going to fall over the railing trying to lean into the glow.

It felt… good. Having someone share in the love of those lights… he had decided he was never going to see them again. The first night he had returned, he snuck out of Mor’s house where Az, Cass, and even Amren were staying too to climb to the House of Winds and spotted the Rainbow’s festival lights a few streets away.

He hadn’t been able to spot the tears when he spotted it alive and glowing among all the other businesses, and when Feyre had said she loved it too, he wanted to cry again. Even if he were gone, the Rainbow and Velaris would endure. His family made sure of that.

Feyre moves back to the couch and hesitantly pulls the blanket over herself Amren must have returned. She throws it around her shoulders, looking smaller than ever.

He knew enough not to ask her why she seemed to constantly apologize or show gratitude. He had to stop himself from doing it too.

Amarantha had that affect.

Rhys pulls the finest wine from the shelf, hidden in Cassian’s least favorite’s bottle. He grabs two tumblers and carry them all to the glass coffee table. Feyre takes the glass with a small smile after he pours it and takes a place next to her.

“Do you think she knows I’m alive?”

A thousand questions come to mind but he doesn’t ask them. In the past few years, he’s mastered keeping silent. Instead he gives her an honest answer: “I think she can find out anything she wants to.”

There’s a long story behind it, and he wonders if she can tell but she doesn’t ask anything either.

She points to a filled bookshelf with her tumbler, “Have you read all these?”

Rhys lets out a small chuckle and shakes his head, “Not all of them. Law school’s a pain in the ass. And on the eyes.”

He prides himself on the little smile that he spots before her glass covers her lips again. She’s wearing Mor’s clothes, a long tunic and leggings that are baggy around her hips and breasts, but it was the best they could do.

“I left school in eighth grade. Or the summer before; I don’t remember. Dad set up everything for homeschool, but I think they just lost track of us in the moves and he didn’t bother setting anything up. My sisters were a junior and senior, so they were supposed to teach me, I think, but they never did.”

A spark of anger ignites in his chest at her words but quickly dampens at her monotone. She didn’t care such power was taken from her.

She stops talking and just stares at the shelves and it cracks Rhys heart. “If you ever need any help with upper level math, well, I’ll be honest, you should talk to Mor about it.”

Her lips twitch. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. I’m going to go find a space to sleep. Goodnight, Rhys.”

“Goodnight, Feyre.”

He watches her leave with the blanket trailing after her like a royal cloak before tossing back the rest of his drink.

Voices travel down the hall but only Mor enters the room. She immediately grabs the wine bottle and holds it close. “Up for some company?”

“I’m surprised you’re asking, honestly.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mor sits against the arm of the couch, the bottle hidden behind her knees.

“Not really.”

“’Kay, do you want to talk about the other thing?”

 “What other thing?”

“The pretty one planning to sleep in the lounge.”

Rhys rubs his eyes. The lounge was cold, he’ll have to bring another blanket in. He hears Mor slide down the couch and then feels her head against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I don’t believe this is all a coincidence. “

“Mor-”

“Rhysand. How is this all chance to you? Meeting Feyre and then she ends up being the one who was responsible for Amarantha disappearing? And you just happen to stumble across her in the city months later? _And_ then at the train station? Come on, Rhys, even you felt something with her. You told me on the way home from the airport.”

“I was jet-lagged.”

“The continent is three hours away by plane.”

Rhys leans his head back and closes his eyes. He still felt like a stalker watching Feyre and as Mor said, stumbling across her in random parts of the city but he couldn’t deny having felt something when he first spotted her drawing him. It was flattering in a way that he never felt before. He _liked_ her. He had fun joking with her and teasing her.

And he had more hurt than he could justify when she hurried off from baggage claim, never to be seen again, or that was how it seemed at the time.

“I’m not saying that you have to go after her, Rhys. I’m never going to tell you how to live your life and she’s obviously going through a lot, but I know how you are. You don’t think you deserve good things. Maybe-”

“Mor, please stop.”

“Okay.”


	10. Glow

It took three days for her to find the strongest whiskey and four for her darker thoughts to find her.  
  
Feyre swirls the liquid like it’s molten gold around its bottle, fascinated by the gulps it makes when it splashes back down into itself. Five days in the House of Winds has given her a permanent crick in her neck and the desire to go home. She wasn’t sure where that was, but it definitely wasn’t here.  
  
There’s a part of her, a part she keeps trying to quiet, tells her to go back to the house, back to Tamlin, because they’ve dealt with Amarantha before. Plus, it was a home, not an office.  
  
She swirls her drink again.   
  
Amren had reluctantly tried to make her comfortable as they worked to figure out why Amarantha was looking for Mor. She had brought pajamas and some other clothes for Feyre, silky ones she wears now but they still slip over her skin and bunch up around her crotch uncomfortably.  
  
She misses her own clothes and her own bed, her own boots, her old self. Mortland had been rough, Tamlin’s house had been a blissful sanctuary until it wasn’t, and now she was here. Mother, what was supposed to happen after this?  
  
The penthouse’s front door clicks open and Feyre doesn’t bother hiding the whiskey. She dares them to try to take it away.  
  
By the one light lit, she can tell it’s Rhys. She hadn’t seen him leave, but she wasn’t seeing much of him lately anyway.  
  
He freezes when he spots her before crossing his arms and shifting his weight. She imagines painting him, dark on dark with just a light hue highlighting his jaw before remembering that she doesn’t paint anymore.  
  
She holds out her bottle in a salute, “Good evening, Rhysand.”  
  
“It’s three in the morning.”  
  
“Haven’t noticed to be honest,” she says, lowering the bottle. “No one’s been around to tell me.”  
  
It’s hard to tell in the light but she thinks he winces. When he doesn’t reply, she pushes herself off the leather couch and stumbles slightly. Suddenly he’s there, a hand hovering near her elbow. Her sleeve falls over her wrist and nearly brushes his fingers.  
  
“You know,” she starts, not knowing where she’s going, “If I wanted to stay inside all day I would have stayed in the fucking house.”  
  
“Fey-”  
  
“Why am I here?”  
  
Her knuckles are white around the bottle’s neck and her eyes spark with something hot but Rhys isn’t sure if it’s anger or not. He slides his hands into his pockets and clenches them tight; he’s sure she can see them shaking anyway.  
  
In her lilac pajamas and her hair pulled back, she looks younger than she has since he’s met her, but older too, something in her eyes screams experience and it hurts to see.  
  
“I don’t know, Feyre, why are you here?”  
  
It isn’t fair to ask, he knows this, but he’s tired and annoyed and afraid. Cassian and Az had reported back with Amren’s confirmation that Amarantha was around her old goons again. Handling her alone was one thing; dealing with her rich little army was another. He had spent the entire day split between the Rainbow and the lower floors of Velaris knowing Feyre was upstairs alone. He just couldn’t face her at the moment, not after his conversation with Mor a few days ago, but he was hoping to crash on the couch, not come back and face an awake and slurring Feyre.  
  
He cocks an eyebrow at her when she doesn’t answer but his heart yells at him to pull into his arms because she looks so lost in the question and nowhere near an answer.  
  
Rhys pulls in a deep breath and shuts his eyes, listening to Feyre move around the room until he hears the slight groan of the couch. It really is time to change up the furniture like Mor has been saying.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles.  
  
Her bottom lip trembles and a tear slips over her cheek and Rhys can’t stop himself from swiping it up with his hand and sitting next to her.  
  
She leans into his palm and he freezes, afraid to move as she leans farther into him. Her warm weight presses against his side, and he’s afraid to breathe.  
  
“I know I’m drunk, tipsy, whatever,” she starts, “but I don’t know what to do, Rhys. I want to help but I can’t... I can’t talk about it. Not yet.”  
  
Rhys nods at the fireplace, as she repeats her words from a few days before. He understands.  
  
Feyre repeats herself while Az’s words run through his head, “I want to help, I do, but I don’t know how. Tamlin never let him help me with his business. Lucien started to, but he stopped when Tamlin was stupid and thought we were sleeping together. Did you see him with a black eye? He punched him in his bad eye.”  
  
Rhys shuts his eyes and bites his tongue. Lucien wasn’t his favorite person, but the man didn’t deserve to be hit, or at least not usually. Even Tamlin didn’t deserve that. His mother and sister’s faces flash across his thoughts. He deserved worse.  
  
He licks his lips, hesitating, wondering if this will work and how it will go if it doesn’t.  
  
“Azriel told me today that there’s going to be a charity gala in a week. We believe Amarantha will be there,” To spread her lies and other poison, “Do you want to go?”  
  
When she doesn’t give him an answer, he looks down expecting her to have fallen asleep. He’s surprised to see her awake, glaring at the fireplace. There’s a small crinkle between her eyebrows.  
  
“Do I get a pretty dress to wear?”  
  
He snorts and gently pries the bottle from her hand. “I’m sure Mor will take you on an all-day shopping trip.”  
  
She nods against his shoulder. It reminds her of their day at the airport. She had fallen asleep first but then woke up on him, but it still felt the same. And they had coffee then instead of whiskey. No, they had coffee later. It felt the same but different. In a good way, she thinks.  
  
He’s warm and his jacket is soft. He hardly moves when he tilts the bottle back and she appreciates it because the fire is starting to rock funnily like the boat Tamlin took her on in that lake once.  
  
“Never been a fan of boats,” Rhys says and Feyre feels heat rise to her face. She said that aloud. Dear Mother. “I prefer flying.”  
  
“I’ve been on a plane three times. To come to here, and to the continent and back. It was fun. Everything was so tiny. I didn’t realize how tiny everything was.”  
  
“I thought that too. It’s amazing.”  
  
She looks up at him and sketches his profile in her head. His nose, his jaw, his impossibly long eyelashes.   
  
It’s all too much and she looks away.   
  
Silence falls between them except for the occasional loud pop from the fire. She moves only to pull the blanket over legs and Rhys’ lap.  
  
Her eyes are slipping shut when he says, “I’m sorry that you’ve been here alone. I thought you would need time after everything. I know we can all be a bit much in the best circumstances.”  
  
“At least the door was locked from the inside.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Feyre freezes and pushes off Rhys. “I didn’t mean anything by that. It was a bad joke.”  
  
“That didn’t sound like a joke, Feyre. What happened?” His eyes search hers, so damn blue and concerned that she looks away again. “Feyre?”  
  
“It’s nothing, Rhysand. Good night.” She tugs the blanket over her shoulders like a cape and squeezes between the couch and side table. The halls are dark, but she finds the tiny lounge and curls onto it, trying to find a way to sleep that won’t leave her a crick in her neck tomorrow.   
  


***  


“ _Mother, dammit!”_

Feyre wakes up to the sound of swearing and a small crash down the hall. Cassian hops on one foot, trying to tie his trainers. He falls into the wall and then only spots her leaning in her doorway.

He gives her a bright smile, “Good morning, Feyre. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“You did.”

Her head pounds as he sends her an apologetic smile, managing to get his laces tied. Hangovers were never a problem for her, so she thinks it’s what she said to Rhys. She tugs the blanket closer.

“Sorry. Any interest in going on a hike in the mountains?”

Feyre narrows her eyes. “Did Rhys put you up to this?”

“Yes,” Cassian says immediately. “but it’s a good idea. Fresh air, dirt, what’s not to love?”

She passes her eyes over him. He wears cargo shorts and a blue athletic shirt. They’re as worn as his shoes with their mud scuffs. “Sure,” she says with a shrug, “But I don’t have the clothes.”

“You don’t need anything fancy. Didn’t Amren get you tennis shoes?”

She finds the shoes she hasn’t seen before, a small suspicion creeping into her thoughts, and dresses in some lighter clothes before meeting Cassian back in the hallway. They walk side by side to the elevator, and she can’t help but suppress a grin at the thought of going outside for the first time in a week.

Cars are stuck in traffic and the sidewalks are crowded with business people, but the air is as fresh as a city’s can be. Cassian offers his arm which she takes, and they set off to the train station.

“So, have you ever been to the mountains?”

“No, but I’ve wanted to see them up close since I got here.”

They avoid a line at a food cart, “Mor said you were from Mortland. I’ve never been there; what’s it like?”

Feyre shrugs, “My part of it wasn’t that good. It was a little town no one’s ever heard of where nothing happened.”

“I’m sure _something_ happened. I grew up with Rhys and Az near the mountains. We’re not going to that area. I thought we could take the trails. If you really enjoy it we can go running another time,” he knocks her shoulder.

She knocks him back. “I’m not a runner.”

“I’ll make you a runner. You have no choice.”

She rolls her eyes as the train pulls up, whipping their hair. They stand close in the crowded car while Cassian describes the trail he wants to take her on, one not too long but long enough to hopefully give her peace of mind.

They only switch trains once but in the half hour ride, she finds she likes Cassian. He’s badly funny and he seems to know it, and at one point he pulls out a bag of popcorn and refuses to tell her where he’s gotten it from.

She’s trying to get him to reveal its origins and they almost miss their stop; the doors try to close on his chest, but he makes it through, stumbling onto the platform before straightening like he strolled off and she nearly laughs.

Light streams through the big glass windows overhead, fresh air blowing inside. It smells like pine, and when they walk through the automatic doors, it hits her like cool air on a summer’s day.

“We have a few blocks to go: do you want to walk it or take a cab?”

“Let’s walk,” she offers her arm and he takes it. She leads him in the direction he points. “Do you come here a lot?”

Cass shrugs. “When it’s nice. In the winter I run on the streets since they usually salt them, otherwise I’d be out here all the time. I’m glad you came. The House of Winds is nice, but I hate being cooped of anywhere, so I can’t imagine how your survived it.”

“There are worse places to be stuck.”


	11. Golden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Winter Solstice!!!! Happy Holidays!!!! And if I don't get a chapter out beforehand, Happy New Year!!!!

When they get back to the House of Winds, Rhys and Mor are hunched over an open file but neither of them are focused on it. Az and Amren aren’t around and the rest of the office is quiet.  
  
They look up when Cassian and Feyre enter, warm and sweaty from the mountain trails. The fresh air wasn’t a cure, but it cleared her head a bit. Enough that she sends an apologetic smile to Rhys who returns it.  
  
“Can I speak to you in private, Rhys?”  
  
It feels odd and formal, but she leads him into a separate office that’s too neat to be used often. She clicks the door behind them and leans against it.  
  
Rhys leans against the desk and crosses his arms and she can see his biceps through his button-up. She averts her eyes.  
  
“I want to apologize for last night. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”  
  
“Feyre, you don’t need to apologize for anything.”  
  
“No, I do. I want to thank you too. For dealing with me. Now I’m done apologizing. I think I’ve been doing that too often.”  
  
Rhys gives her a gentle smile, just a slight tug of his lips, “I’m glad that hike worked out for you.”  
  
“Don’t be so smug about it,” she rolls her eyes. “Am I still invited to the party?”  
  
His smile grows into a grin, “Wouldn’t be a party without you.”  
  
Something sparks in his dark eyes. Something like a star in the night. It’s the first she’s seen of it since Winter solstice. It warms her belly.  
  
It cools a little when she asks, “Is it the annual Calanmai Gala?”  
  
He cocks his head. “You’ve heard of it?  
  
Feyre sucks in her lip and Rhys shifts to sit back on the desk. “I went with Tamlin two years in a row.”  
  
Rhys scrunches his nose and Feyre wants to smooth it with her fingers. “So you’re prepared for all the bureaucrats.”  
  
“Let’s not be ridiculous; You can never be prepared for bureaucrats,” she says and Rhys throws his head back and laughs and it makes her chest lighter.  
  
“Mor wants to take you dress shopping but I think I have something you might like. I had it brought up earlier when you two were gone.”  
  
She nods. If it had been anyone else outside of this group, she wouldn’t trust their taste but this group all dressed impeccably.  
  
Tamlin had always given her a choice on what to wear to the gala except it was a choice out of three and they all made her feel like a giant cupcake. Or a deviled egg. Compared to the sleekness of the other women and men at the parties, she felt like a four year old.  
  
They treated her like one too.  
  
They only pass down the hall, bare compared to the townhouse’s walls, to a smaller office and Feyre starts to wonder how many people actually work on the top floor because she hasn’t seen hide or hair of anyone else.  
  
Rhys pulls out a black garment bag and unzips it carefully. Fabric flows out and for a moment she’s afraid of looking like a burnt muffin until he pulls the gown forward.  
  
It’s black and long and Feyre thinks that maybe she could get away with murder in it. One lacy sleeve balances out the _very high_ slit one the other side leaving a wedge cut out for exposed skin underneath the sleeve. It would give Tamlin a heart attack if he ever saw her wearing it.  
  
“I love it.” The fabric weighs heavily but its soft as satin and flows through her fingers. The lace must be real silk; it couldn’t be anything else.  
  
“I know it’s a bit exposing, but with intel telling us Amarantha will be there it’s better than being modest in bright yellow,” he shrugs, tucking the gown back in carefully. “We can find you one of those if you want though.”  
  
“No, this is perfect. She’ll never expect to be me. I don’t normally wear stuff like that.”  
  
“If you don’t feel comfortable-”  
  
“No. I want to wear it.” Amarantha had laughed at her once for wearing a flowery pink dress. Feyre has wanted to scream that it was Tamlin, Tamlin was dressing her like a doll, Tamlin bought her clothes. Of course, she couldn’t say anything.  
  
“Feyre?”  
  
She hastily wipes her eyes but Rhys’ already there leading her to one of the chairs facing the desk. He takes the other, one hand on her shoulder as she tries to swallow the sudden tears.  
  
He doesn’t push her to talk but he doesn’t take his hand away either and she draws strength from it. She catches herself from breaking her promise of no more apologies and says, “I’m just thinking.”  
  
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
A fresh round of tears wells at the sincerity she sees in his eyes, eyes in a blue she’s never seen. A kind, dark blue like water at night or the sky on a full moon. She wonders if he knows his face is closed but his eyes are wider than distance.  
  
She nods and cradles her elbows. “I was thinking about how I used to bow to him all the time. Not literally, not actually bowing but listening to him when I didn’t want to. I know he’d hate that dress, and I think that’s part of the reason I love it. ‘Cause he’d hate it. Does that make me a bad person?”

Rhys is shaking his head, “It doesn’t. It definitely does not.”

“I feel like I am. He gave me so much and I just… I just left.”

“Feyre, look at me.” She does, “I don’t know what happened, but from what I’ve gathered you gave me more than he did.”

“No. You don’t understand. He gave me _everything._ ”

Rhys opens his mouth, then closes it, swallows. “Sometimes,” he says slowly, chewing over his words, “we shouldn’t count those things. It shouldn’t be about keeping score. Can I show you something?”

He rolls up his slacks, colorful socks climbing up to his golden calves. When he reaches his knees, ink starts to flow. Three tiny stars hover over mountain peaks on both knees; Velaris’ symbol.

“I got these when I was eighteen. I inherited Velaris very young. I was so disgusted by the people trying to buy it off me, people like Amarantha, that I decided I would not give into any of them, that I wouldn’t bow to them, only to the wishes of the people in the Rainbow.”

Feyre looks over the simple design. She understands the importance of the symbol, but not about kneeling on it. It seems silly to have tattoos someone would never see on such a sensitive area of the body; it must have been painful.

“It helped me on the continent, “he says quieter, “They couldn’t take it away.”

“I died.” Feyre says it bluntly, “I died after everything last summer. My heart stopped on the operation table twice. It’s probably hard to imagine but I forget I died. I was declared dead, but some stubborn doctor wouldn’t stop trying to resuscitate me. Sometimes I think he shouldn’t have. Maybe I should be dead.”

“Don’t say that.” The tightness in his voice makes her look at him again. His eyes are darker and bigger, and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

“What?”

“Don’t say you should be dead. You’re great, Feyre. Everyone here likes you a lot and if you had died no one would have known how great you are.

Feyre swallows thickly and looks away.

“Please don’t let anyone ever convince you don’t deserve good things, darling.”

She doesn’t trust her voice, so she grabs his hand on her shoulder instead and squeezes tightly. His hand is warm as he squeezes back. Shutting her eyes, she wonders how she got here and where she’s supposed to go from here.

Eventually she opens them again to find Rhys still watching her closely, but it’s not uncomfortable or creepy. It’s more comforting than anything, like he’s trying to find the right words to say. She wishes he would find them and tell her.

They make their way back to the main room where Mor and Cassian are playing war with an old pack of cards. She sits on the floor more content and calm than she’s been in a long time. Rhys sits next to her, bumping his shoulder against hers before taunting Cassian about his draws. As he flips another, she remembers her last conversation with Tamlin, about how she told him she needed to talk about it, and wonders if she’d feel this way if he had listened.

 

***

 

She’s in her silky pajamas ready for bed when she walks past the main room, the cards long put away. A single light shines near the sofa next to the fireplace: Rhys in his own sleepwear and robe with a thick book in hand.

Feyre sucks her lip before going back to the lounge and pulling her pillow and blanket into her arms and making her way back. Rhys looks up when she walks in.

“Do you mind?” She asks, lifting the pillow up.

“Of course not,” Rhys says. He watches her settle into the couch and find a cozy spot.

She pulls the blanket up to her chin, “What are you reading?”

It’s too dark to see the cover of the book, but Rhys doesn’t seem like one to study late at night.

“It’s a book of Greek myths. Not exactly bedtime stories if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Feyre shrugs, “I’ve never been much of a fan of fairytales.”

“Not even when you were little?”

“No one really read them to me. I just learned about them.”

“Well, I don’t have any _Cinderella_ or _Beauty and the Beast,_ but I can give you Atalanta and Persephone. Not as pleasant, I’m afraid.”

“Tell me about them.”

And he does.

 

***

 

Mor is disappointed to not go dress shopping, but she’s happy enough to go looking for shoes. After picking out a strappy pair that will take minutes to put on, Cassian invites her to go to the mountain trails again.

It’s warmer as they creep closer to the Spring Solstice. More people travel the trails, mothers and fathers trying to keep their children on the path and joggers dodging them as they go.

“Can I ask you a question?” She asks Cass, trying to hide her panting as they walk up a particularly steep slope.

“You just did but I’ll allow another,” he grins.

She rolls her eyes. She seems to do that more on these mountains than anywhere else. “Why are we all going out now? I thought the House of Winds was safest.”

He takes a moment to drink from his water bottle before answering. “Do you want an honest answer, or a polite one?”

“I’d prefer honest.”

“You told Rhys something about a door being locked from the inside. He didn’t know what you meant but he figured it wasn’t a good idea to keep you inside, and as for him, we figure after being stuck somewhere on the continent for five years, he wouldn’t want to be stuck inside either.”

Anger and shame burns in her belly, but she tempers it with the idea of her still being inside the office, or worse Tamlin’s. And Cass tries to make his words light, but it’s like trying to lift an anvil with a balloon.

“I’m sorry you all had to go through that. I can’t imagine losing a brother for five years.” She tries to imagine Nesta or Elain missing, and despite their shaky relationships, it would still hurt.

“It was fucked up,” And that’s all he has to say.

The trail empties as they go higher except for a few more determined joggers and themselves. Cassian had promised a view but Feyre’s lungs don’t seem to care very much for it. It’s embarrassing how out of breath she is when she used to do the heavy lifting and odd jobs at home in Mortland. Helping people move their furniture for a bit of cash and some extra muscles was worth it. Now she wonders when she’s let herself get so weak.

Cassian disappears behind a boulder and she takes the moment to suck in a large breath before following him only to lose the breath.

It’s a small outcropping peeking out of the trees. They’re about a fifth of the way up the mountain side but it’s enough to look down at the housing and tiny shopping streets a few miles away. The colorful houses have nothing on the sky though.

Thick, fluffy clouds speed across the sky in an intangible wind against the perfect green of the trees and rolling ground below them. Further in the distance she can see the railroad weaving between the hills.

It’s all so surreal her words from yesterday come back to her. _Maybe I should be dead._

And then another’s.

_Don’t let anyone ever convince you don’t deserve good things, darling._

_Even yourself,_ she thinks, and takes a long breath in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, leaving comments, and kudos! Even if I don't respond, trust I saw it and that it made my day! <3


	12. Roil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me tooth and nail every step of the way.

Feyre was trying not to lie to herself anymore, even about the little things, so she couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed that their presence at the party would be little more than reconnaissance.

She keeps the thought to herself, letting Mor continue braiding a crown over her head. Her fingers gently pull Feyre’s hair and they dig up memories of her mother.

Those thoughts are squashed quickly. It doesn’t take much to shove them into a dark corner of her mind.

Feyre watches Mor in the mirror, the woman’s golden hair already twisted high; if possible Mor looks even better than usual.

Mor talks around the bobby pin in her mouth, “Your hair is so soft, I’d kill for your texture.”

“Thank Amren, she bought me the shampoo.”

“Hmm.”

Mor works in silence while Feyre plays with one of the pearl barrettes Mor planned to use on the back of her head. Its beads are smooth like silk. She wonders whose it was.

Feyre chews her lip, “Hey Mor?”

“Hmm?”

“The accident that killed your aunt and cousin, Tamlin was responsible for that, wasn’t he?”

Feyre feels Mor’s hands still for a moment and shuts her eyes, then they start tugging gently again on the braid. She stays silent, and that’s all Feyre needs.

The pearls dig into her palm. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

She nearly jumps off the seat even as Rhys appears in the mirror. The cousins share a look before Mor pats Feyre’s shoulder and hands the end of the braid to Rhys.

Mor disappears with a click of the door as Rhys starts pulling on her hair. He’s just as gentle, but she fights the rise of heat in her face. This is different.

“You didn’t know him then, so I won’t let you take any blame.”

He’s already changed into his suit. It’s not closed, and he’s missing a tie, and when she tries to imagine one around his neck, she can’t.

She doesn’t know what to say, so she asks, “Where did you learn to do hair?”

“My sister was insistent I learn how. She always said I did it better than our mother, but that Cassian did it better than me.”

Feyre starts to speak but Rhys says, “And she said Az did it best of all.”

She suppresses a grin, imagining the quiet man with pins in his mouth like Mor. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Rhys snorts. “Of course, there is, my own sister didn’t appreciate my skill.”

“Well since Mor trusts you, I guess I have to, too.”

“Oh, that’s only because she knows Az isn’t here. If he was, I wouldn’t be allowed within ten feet of you.”

He meets her eyes in the mirror and grins, and she can’t keep the grin back this time.

 

***

 

She slips into the dress.

It hugs her frame but it’s comfortable and she can move. Sitting on an ottoman proves she doesn’t need to be on her feet all night, and her shoes match perfectly.

The only problem is the zipper she can’t reach. She pinches it shut before leaving the lounge, carrying her shoes.

A door clicks shut behind her. Azriel catches her eye and smiles before walking down to her.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” Feyre smiles, “I haven’t seen you in a while. Can you zip me up?”

Az’s lips twitch but he does. He offers an arm and she takes it.

Ice crawls up her legs when they step into the marble elevator, but she wants to wear her heels as little as possible until she needs to. Mor would never let her wear boots or flats tonight.

Azriel presses the lobby button and the doors slide shut. She messes with the thin silver band around her wrist expecting a silent ride except he turns toward her, looking unsure of his words.

“Are you ready for tonight?”

She shrugs. She really doesn’t know. Part of her stomach twists at the thought of being surrounded by Amarantha’s people or Amarantha herself, and another part of her glows with pride that she’s brave enough to try.

“I suggested that you and Rhys stay away, but Rhys wouldn’t have it,” Az continues, glancing away, “I know how it’s feels to be around someone like that again.”

His words hold an ocean’s weight but Feyre won’t pry. She can imagine how she’ll feel if she sees Amarantha tonight; hearing only her voice had paralyzed her, seeing her... it would be worse.

She lays a hand on his arm, “Thank you, Az. Knowing we won’t be there alone makes it better.”

“Rhys said the same thing,” His lips twitch again.

“Well, great minds think alike.”

Az’s grin breaks out. It’s just as lovely as the others’. “But fools rarely differ.”

Feyre shoves him lightly and he chuckles. She links her arm through his again as the doors slide back open.

“There they are,” Mor says.

The lobby floor is colder than the elevator so Feyre hangs onto Az as she puts her shoes on and takes everyone in.

Rhys still wears his suit from earlier, and it nearly matches Az’s now they stand together, but Cassian’s beige suit stands out among them, and it looks good against his bronze skin and dark hair, pulled back into a knot at the base of his neck.

Mor’s golden hair and honey dress, cinched at the waist with a deep neckline makes her into an unattainable trophy, and Amren wears one of her business suits.

Feyre already knows Amren isn’t joining them for Calanmai. Rhys had said her presence would be too suspicious; Cassian said it was because she wanted to stay in and read. Feyre suspects it’s a bit of both because she spots the slippers beneath the flared pant bottoms.

“Our ride’s here,” Rhys says, sliding his phone into his pocket.

“Finally,” Cass sighs, leading Mor by the small of her back to the entrance.

Az’s bicep tenses under Feyre’s hand for a moment. She looks at him, but he only relaxes slightly. Their arms are wrong, but she leads him to the doors leaving Rhys with Amren.

The limousine stretches down in front of them. She only sees the end of Mor’s dress disappear inside before she lifts her own for the stairs. If she grips his arm a little more tightly to not fall, Azriel doesn’t show it.

She gives him a smile when he lets her in first. Sliding down next to Mor carefully, Az is quickly followed in by Rhys. As soon as the door shuts behind him, the driver pulls into traffic.

Feyre’s been in limos before. Tamlin only insisted on the best, but even he never had a car with the type of wine Cassian hands her a few minutes later.

She sips it as they go, only giving her thanks before falling quiet, not because she feels awkward but because she knows she doesn’t need to.

But Rhys and Az, Mor and Cassian only talk quietly about tonight and a lacrosse game but Feyre lets the words disappear in the hum of the car.

It’s not long before the limousine pulls to a stop and the driver’s door breaks through her thoughts. Only a moment later Rhys’ door opens. He gives her a tight-lipped smile before ducking out and into the lights.

Az follows. Mor squeezes her hand before she climbs out too. Cameras flash around her and she takes a steadying breath. Mor and Rhys had coached her in this, but Ianthe already had a long time ago.

She hated it each time, always thinking the cameras highlight every scar, every wily strand of hair. It was paranoia-inducing.

Burying herself into a shallow grave of apathy, she takes Az’s arm for the third time. As she expected, it’s comforting, and he gives her a small smile.

_You’re not alone,_ it says.

_Neither are you_ , she replies. 

Thankfully, Rhys steals the show. She feels a bit guilty for being glad he’s the center of attention, but he seems to be handling it with grace. She even catches him throwing a smoldering look at one attractive reporter, and Feyre looks away.

Only to catch Mor’s own knowing eyes.

She looks away again and grateful when Az pulls her forward and behind Rhys to the end of the carpet.

Eventually he gets off too, rolling his eyes as Mor and Cassian take longer in front of the cameras than anyone else, other invitees walking passed them.

Just as she thinks Rhys is going to drag them off the carpet himself, they make their way over and they make their way as a group into the museum’s atrium.

Hundreds of people make an indiscernible amount of noise. People mingling around the giant sculpture and others chatting and laughing on the level above all contribute to the cacophony of a room that would echo a dropped pin.

A server in a white coat offers them a platter of drinks. Cassian thanks her before grabbing the five flutes. She hurries off, Feyre guesses, for another tray.

Unfortunately, their group breaks up according to plan. Az seems to disappear into thin air, Cassian engages one of the most finely dressed women near them into conversation, while Mor and Rhys stay near her.

Cassian and Azriel had drilled the plan into her head, not because they thought they needed to, but because she insisted they do. Now they chat and wait for whispers of Rhys’ appearance to make their rounds.

“Well, I must say you ladies are looking lovely tonight.”

Mor rolls her eyes. “Shut up the hell up, Rhys.”

Feyre hides a smile behind her glass as she looks over the room. Every blonde and redhead catch her eye, but she doesn’t recognize any the style of what she last saw Tamlin, Lucien, or Amarantha in.

After a few more minutes of meaningless talk and meaningful teasing, Mor breaks away and Feyre loses her golden head in the crowd.

“I meant what I said,” Rhys says, and Feyre turns to him. “You are looking lovely tonight, Feyre. I apologize for not saying it before.”

She can feel herself blushing, so she fidgets with the empty flute still in her hands. “Thank you. You don’t look too bad yourself.”

It’s an understatement. The suit was probably tailored for him; it fits his cut perfectly, the lines of the jacket leading up to his perfect face and styled hair. It almost made her angry how handsome he looks tonight, and all the times before.

“Thank you, but do I really? Cassian said I looked like I had a golden rod up my ass.”

“I don’t understand how he hasn’t gotten used to it yet,” Feyre smirks.

Rhys holds a hand over his heart, “Feyre darling, you wound me.”

Her smile softens without her permission. She wonders what kind of fire or ice burns in him that after five years with Amarantha, he can still joke and laugh when a few months nearly sent her over the edge.

Feyre steps closer into his face until they’re nearly nose to nose. This close she can see the array of blues that make up his midnight eyes. Closer, they are more mosaic than any medley she’s seen before.

“Thank you,” she says for the thousandth time, “for everything.” Then she squeezes into the crowd before she lets her mind think about lips that look just a little bit chapped.

She quickly switches her empty glass for one filled with maroon and makes her way behind a pillar holding up the terraces above. The grooves dig into her shoulder, but she leans against it anyway, hoping she blends into the shadows.

The drink burns her throat as it goes down and it successfully distracts her mind from what she was just about to do in front of so many of Amarantha’s people, if only for a moment.

_Fucking hell, Feyre. Now is_ not _the time._

With Tamlin, it had been a jump and fall type of love. Not at the end, was it really anything resembling love, but it had been once upon a time. Despite that love being cold for a long while, she still feels like she’s in its wreckage, and she shouldn’t want that with Rhys. Doesn’t.

She doesn’t want another crash and burn with Rhys, with anyone, ever again. Those who said it was better to have loved and lost clearly never had Tamlin as their lover.

“Feyre?”

Her glass slips out of her fingers and the wine sloshes dangerously before she steadies herself in front of Lucien.

His eyes are wide and a bit wild as they take each other in; she’s sure she looks the same.

Lucien shakes his head and his flaming hair falls forward before he takes her elbow and pulls her farther behind the column. “What are you doing here?” he hisses.

Feyre takes a step back, yanking her arm back as she does. His eyes widen only a little.

“What do you want,” she says coolly. He hadn’t known everything Tamlin did, but he knew enough to know there was something happening. She doesn’t know what hurts worse.

He ignores her. “Do you know that Tamlin’s here? Do you know what it’ll do to him if he sees you here?”

_“Excuse me?_ What it will do to _him?”_

“Do you have any idea how devastated he’s been since you left? He’s inconsolable.”

Feyre can only stare at him, hoping to see a sign of a bad joke somewhere on his face. There’s no way Tamlin has Lucien so convinced of this, of everything. Lucien may have a bad eye, but he wasn’t blind.

“What do you mean ‘since I left’?” What has he been telling you, Lucien?”

But she sees the answer in his face: that Tamlin was the one who was hurt, the one betrayed.

“Please tell me you don’t believe him. Lucien, you were my first friend. Tell me you’re not falling for his act.”

“What in the Cauldron are you talking about?”

This time its her who pulls them farther away from the atrium. “Did he tell you why I left?”

“So, you did leave?”

“Just tell me, Lucien!”

“He said you two had a bad fight and that you stormed out.”

Feyre shuts her eyes as it all comes falling back on her. Tamlin knew Lucien was her only friend and he pulls this. He didn’t know where she was, that she had friends and that she was being taken care of by good people, and he still tried to sever the only friendship of hers he knew of.

“Lucien, he dragged me down the hall like a sack and he locked me in the guest bedroom. He didn’t let me out. I had to jump out the window.” The words manage to escape her tightening throat.

He’s already shaking his head before she finishes. “Lucien, please. Why would I lie to you?”

Barely a word comes out when the lights start to dim. Their corner darkens enough to wash Lucien of all color. Feyre peers around the pillar and nearly drops her glass again. She’s one of the few who catches it before it shatters across the marble floor.

“Good evening, everyone.”

Up and across from her shadowy cover, Amarantha stands tall with three men at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thanks for reading! Second, school has started again and I am so busy with it that this update schedule still doesn't exist. As I believe I have said before, I will finish this fic, but it will take time. I want to thank you all for being patient, leaving such nice comments, and for leaving kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> "It's been 90 degrees Fahrenheit the last few days, so let's write a fic that has snow in it"- my mind
> 
> As the tags say, this takes place on Winter Solstice even though its not mentioned in the fic. I might make this part of series revolving around Rhys and Feyre in a modern AU. Thanks for reading!


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